-- 


*«{,/* 


UCSB   LIBRARY 

s 


I B 


THATCHWOOD    COTTAGE. 


POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


BY 


COUSIN    BENJA. 


PLYMOUTH : 

MEMORIAL   AKD   ROCK   PRESS. 

1866. 


CONTENTS. 


PACK. 

Introduction,    --------9 

The  Dawn  of  the  New  Era,      -        -        -        -        -       13 

Not  all  of  Life  to  Live,    ------       15 

Rural  Life, 18 

Retrospection, -        -        -19 

Faith  in  God,    -        -         -        -  -       20 

Letter  Number  One,          ......      22 

Hall's  Brook, ---24 

Will  you  Love  Me  when  I'm  Old,     -        -         -        -       2(> 
Lines,  in  Answer  to  Cou.sin  .Benja's  "Will  you  love 

me  when  I'm  old,1' 

Weary,  Weary,         - 

Reply  to  Annie  Emer,       ------       31 

Mother  of  Mine,       -        -  33 

Spirit  Whisperings,  -------35 

My  Little  Flay  mate,       .    -        -        -        -        -        -      37 

Nature's  Whisperings,       -        -        -        -  38,  181 

The  Morning  Lesson,        ------       40 

Wealth  and  Worth,  - 42 

Keep  Nearer  to  Thy  God,          -----       44 

Lines,        --.. 4^5 

The  Little  One, 47 

Thatch  wood  Cottage  Song,       -----       49 
1*  (v) 


VI.  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Three  Little  Verses,          -        -        -        -        -        -51 

Letter  Number  Two,        ......  52 

Flowers,  ---------  56- 

Died,  68 

Holy  Musings, 60 

He's  Dead,        ....                         -        -  62 

Advice  Gratuitous,   -------  65 

A  Morning's  Ramble,        ------  67 

Obituary — Mary  Elizabeth  Holmes,  69 

Obituary — Amanda  A.  Washburn,    -        -  71 

Obituary — Elisha  McLauthlen,  73 

Elisha, 75 

The  Little  Stream,    -        -  77 

Thermometer  101, 79 

Charley  Oakes  and  Kitty  Lee, 82 

Natural  and  Happy,          ------  84 

Died,         - 86 

Letter  Number  Three, 88 

The  May-Day  Walk,                                                     -  93 

Died  Rich,        -        -                                                    -  96 

Notes  from  Thatchwood  Cottage,  99 

The  Young  Volunteer,      -                          - .      -        -  101 

Frank  and  Little  Jim, 103 

Under  the  Willow, 106 

What  the  Angel  Told  Me, 109 

Old  Pictures  Framed, 112 

Childhood  Hours,                                        -        -        -  114 
Letter  Number  Four,        -        -        -        -        -        -116 

The  Wayward  Leaf,                            -         -        -        -  119 

To  I  Know  Whom — but  You  Don't,          -        -        -  121 

Three  Score  Years  and  Ten,     -----  123 

A  Peep  Through  the  Window,          -        ...  125 

Good-bye,  Old  World,  I'm  Going  Home,                   -  127 

Letter  Number  Five,         ------  129 

The  Frock  and  Shoes, 133 


CONTENTS.  Vll. 

PAGE. 

Snow, 135 

To  My  Friend  J.  P.,         -        -        -        -        -        -  137 

The  Soldier-Boy  of  Gettysburg,       -        -        -        -  139 

Honest  and  Merry,   -        -        -        -        -        -        -  141 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Anna  Lewis  Everson,    -        -  143 

Cinnamon  Roses,      -------  145 

Letter  Number  Six,  -------  157 

The  Gipsey  Girl's  Resolve, 150 

To  the  Gipsey  Girl, 152 

The  First  Death  of  the  Household,  -        -        -        -  154 

Obituary — George  E.  Lucas,     -----  156 

To  the  Trees, 157 

The  Old  Homestead,                                           -        -  158 

To— I  Know  Who, 160 

Slander, 162 

Lines,        ---------  154 

To  Hattie  Hateful,    -        -        -        -        -      165,  168,  172 

To  Cousin  Benja, 166,  170 

Obituary — Henrietta  Frances  Leach,        -  175 

The  Little  Straw  Hat,       -        ,        -        -  .      -        -  177 

The  Little  Coffin,     " 179 

Our  Crystal  Palace, 182 

To  Charley  T.  Irish,                                     -        -        -  183 

Lines  to  Little  Helen's  Mother,         -  185 

Lines  to  Little  Adda's  Mother,           -        -        -•       -  188 

Obituary — Willard  Simmons,  -----  191 

Obituary — Mrs.  Abigail  McLauthlen,        ...  193 

Obituary — Mrs.  Olive  M.  Washburn,        -  195 

To  Azel, 198 

Reply  to  Cousin  Benja,      ------  200 

My  Cousin  and  1,      -------  202 

For  Cousin  Benja, 205 

Old  Times  and  New,         -        -        -        -        -        -  209 

A  Kiss  for  a  Blow,    -------  212 

Query  to  S.  S. — an  Old  Bachelor,     -        -.-  213 


Viii.  CONTENTS. 

PAOE. 

Profane  Swearing,    -------  214 

Summer  Birds,          -------  217 

My  Mother,       -        -        - 219 

Lines  for  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Washburn,         -        -        -  220 

To  a  Friend,     -        -        -  222 

The  Spirit's  Reply, 223 

On  the  Death  of  Little  Lena, 224 

My  Loved  One  is  Dead, 226 


INTRODUCTION. 


BENJA  R.  MITCHELL,  known  by  his  writings 
as  "Cousin  Benja,"  was  born  in  Kingston,  Mas- 
sachusetts, March  21st,  1827  ;  died  April  23d, 
1865,  aged  37  years. 

John  and  Aseueth  Mitchell,  his  parents,  and 
Julia  A.  Mitchell,  his  sister,  comprised  the  house- 
hold in  which  he  spent  his  earthly  life.  He  was 
never  married ;  but  was  affectionately  devoted 
to  his  parents  and  sister,  and  was  allied  in  faith- 
ful friendship  to  all,  particularly  to  the  suffering 
poor. 

During  the  last  ten  years  of  Cousin  Benja's 
life  he  was  a  rare  and  favorite  contributor  to 
various  secular  journals  published  in  the  New 
England  States.  His  sister,  Julia,  has  gathered 
together  and  preserved  most  of  his  writings,  and 
since  his  death  has  selected  from  them  the  fol- 
lowing volume. 

The  presence  of  spirits,  and  communion  with 
them,  was  not  only  a  reality  to  him,  but  was  a 

(ix) 


X.  INTRODUCTION. 

source  of  daily  instruction  and  constant  enjoy- 
ment. The  world  which  is  hidden  to  earthly 
eyes  was  to  him  the  real  world.  His  conscious- 
ness and  his  affection  lived  more  in  the  invisible 
than  in  the  visible  world. 

He  was  never  idle.  Most  of  the  time  in  his 
later  years  he  employed  in  making  "rustic  fur- 
niture," picture  frames,  parlor  ornaments  of  sea 
shells,  mosses,  etc.,  that  are  now  much  valued 
as  the  work  of  his  hands,  and  his  home  circle  of 
friends  keep  sacred  to  his  memory. 

He  was  a  great  lover  of  flowers,  and  culti- 
vated a  garden  full  of  the  rarest  and  most  beau- 
tiful, which  he  often  picked  and  sent  or  carried 
to  the  afflicted,  the  sick  and  dying.  From  flow- 
ers he  drew  the  purest  inspiration  of  angels. 

He  loved  the  trees,  the  wild  woods,  the  run- 
ning streams,  the  rain  and  the  sunshine,  and 
every  beautiful  thing  of  nature ;  from  them  all 
he  drew  the  inspiration  of  the  heavenly  world. 
He  was  Nature's  own  child. 

His  stature  was  slender,  his  health  was  feeble  ; 
for  many  years  but  a  thread  held  his  frail  form 
to  his  great  spirit.  He  died  of  consumption. 

Benja  has  departed  from  our  earthly  senses — 
he  is  gathered  to  the  angels — to  realms  more 
congenial  with  his  gentle  spirit,  his  pure  life, 
his  sacred  nature. 

"  In  the  sands  of  time"  he  has  left  the  foot- 


INTRODUCTION. 


steps  of  angels — the  poetry  and  the  prose  writ- 
ten in  this  book. 

•    "  Footsteps  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main ; 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing  shall  take  heart  again." 

His  genius,  his  amiable  nature,  his  spiritual 
aspirations,  his  generous  devotions,  his  broad- 
cast sympathies,  and  his  holy  life,  are  infused 
throughout  the  following  pages — pages  in  which 
his  readers  may  behold  a  true  picture  of  "Cousin 
Benja  ;"  a  picture  which  oblivion  cannot  deface, 
which  time  will  keep  sacred  in  its  bosom,  and 
eternity  will  claim  its  own. 

A.  B.  CHILD. 

October,  1866. 


POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


THE   DAWN   OF   THE   NEW   ERA. 

Awake  !  aAvake  !  oh  mortal  man, 

Too  long  hast  thou  been  dreaming ; 
Why  sleep  ye  longer  ?  know  ye  not 

The  light  of  morn  is  gleaming  ? 
Go  hang  thy  blankets  in  the  East, 

Thou  canst  not  hide  its  dawning ; 
The  beacon  light  reflects  afar, 

All  hail  the  glorious  morning ! 
When  truth  shall  ride  triumphant  on, 

Her  throne  shall  not  be  shaken — 
When  men  from  angels  catch  the  song — 

Awake  from  sleep,  awaken  ! 

Throw  off  the  chains  that  keep  thy  souls 

Shrouded  like  funeral  palls ; 
And  let  the  rays  of  light  shine  in 

And  light  its  dingy  halls. 
There's  a  divinity  within, 

Planted  by  God's  own  hand ; 
Then  why  debase  thyself  in  sin  ? 

Rise  up  and  be  a  man. 
No  longer  bow  thy  spirit  down 

To  those  of  wealth  and  station ; 
Unfurl  thy  banners  to  the  breeze, 

And  catch  the  inspiration. 

2  (13) 


14:  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

Take  Nature's  books,  no  longer  let 

Them  mould  upon  her  shelves ; 
Read,  study  and  investigate, 

And  learn  her  truth  yourselves  ! 
She  bids  thee  search  true  worth  to  gain, 

And  not  the  world's  applause ; 
And  learn  what  wonders  she  unfolds 

By  her  progressive  laws. 
She  tells  thee  that  the  stalwart  oak, 

(A  mighty  truth  indeed) 
Once  slept  within  the  acorn's  cup, 

A  germinating  seed. 

Then,  oh,  learn  wisdom  from  the  tree, 

And  let  thy  soul  expand, 
And  verify  the  truth,  as  yet, 

"  God's  noblest  work  is  man." 
And  drink  no  longer  at  the  pool, 

But  come  ye  to  the  fount, 
For  angels'  hands  are  reaching  down, 

To  help  thee  up  the  mount. 
And  when  thy  work  on  earth  is  done, 

Instead  of  doubts  and  fears, 
Thou'lt  plume  in  faith  thy  spirit-wings, 

And  soar  to  brighter  spheres. 


NOT  ALL  OF  LIFE  TO  LIVE.  15 


NOT    ALL    OF    LITE    TO    LIVE. 

It  is  not  all  of  life  to  live, 

To  pile  up  stores  of  treasure, 
That  we  may  roll  in  luxury 

And  gratify  our  pleasure. 
It  is  not  right  to  look  with  scorn 

On  honest,  humble  labor, 
Then  fill  our  purse  with  profits  from 

Our  poor,  hard-working  neighbor. 
One  should  not  own  whole  marble  blocks, 

While  others  pay  for  leases ; 
One  should  not  feed  his  neighbors1  flocks, 

Then  have  the  smallest  fleeces. 
It  is  not  right  to  thrust  one  side 

Earth's  true  but  poor  partakers, 
Then  gather  all  the  barley  sheaves 

Upon  a  thousand  acres ! 

It  is  not  all  of  life  to  live 

For  wealth,  for  fame  and  station  ; 
It  is  not  wise  to  give  to  rogues 

The  ruling  of  the  nation. 
It  is  not  right  that  law  divide 

The  poor  man's  only  shilling, 
To  build  up  pomp,  to  foster  pride 

Upon  some  worthless  villain. 
We  should  not  chain  our  ship  of  fate 

At  other  people's  palings, 


16  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

And  whet  our  pruning-knife  of  hate 

Upon  another's  failings ; 
We  should  not  feel  that  we  are  safe 

Without  the  oil  and  leaven, 
Or  think  that  ours  the  only  gate 

Through  which  all  enter  heaven. 

For  when  our  life-book  is  unsealed 

At  heaven's  great  rehearsal, 
We  then  may  wish  our  charities 

Had  been  more  universal ; 
May  wish  we  had  to  others  been 

More  kindly  in  our  feelings, 
And,  in  our  trade  and  marketing, 

More  honest  in  our  dealings ; 
May  wish  our  ledgers  told  more  deeds 

Of  giving,  than  of  selling ; 
That  we  had  turned  more  heavy  wheels 

Around  the  poor  man's  dwelling ; 
May  wish  our  names  on  seals  and  charts, 

That  tell  of  fame  and  story, 
Were  writ  in  love  on  human  hearts, 

With  golden  pens  of  glory ! 

Life's  aims  should  be  to  make  mankind 

One  family  of  brothers, 
By  pouring  out  love's  oil  and  wine 

On  bleeding  hearts  of  others ; 
To  brighten  up  its  rustry  strings, 

That  long  have  been  neglected, 
To  bring  men  up  to  social  life, 

Where  they  will  be  respected. 
That  we  may  in  the  right  grow  strong, 

Knowing  and  possessing — 
For  only  deeds  of  love  and  truth 

Will  ever  bring  a  blessing. 


NOT  ALL  OF  LIFE   TO  LIVE.  17 

May  rich  and  poor,  may  high  and  low, 

Be  wed  in  bonds  fraternal, 
And  sing  at  last  Kedeeming  Love, 

Beyond  the  gate  Supernal. 


18  POEMS  AKD  LETTERS. 


•. 


RURAL   LIFE. 

Who  does  not  love  the  Summer  time, 

When  all  is  life  and  glee  ; 
When  songs  of  birds  are  gushing  forth 

From  every  flower  and  tree  ? 

I  dearly  love  in  summer  time 

To  rise  before  the  sun, 
And  breathe  the  pure  untainted  air, 

That  o'er  the  earth  is  flung. 

To  seek  the  ancient  forest  shade, 
Far  from  the  bursting  throng, 

And  in  some  pleasant,  cool  retreat, 
List  to  the  wild  bird's  song. 

Or  trace  along  the  old  mill  stream, 

And  linger  on  its  banks, 
And  think  how  many  times  I've  played 

Among  the  boards  and  planks. 

The  growing  corn  I  love  to  see, 
And  fields  of  waving  grain ; 

The  morning  sun,  the  evening  shade, 
And  gentle  showers  of  rain. 

I  love  to  see  the  cellars  filled 
With  sauce  of  various  kinds : 

Potatoes,  beets  and  cabbages, 
And  squashes  from  the  vines. 


RETROSPECTION.  19 


RETROSPECTION. 

As  I  sat  by  my  window  one  morning  in  Spring, 

My  heart  was  as  light  as  a  bird  on  the  wing, 

For  Winter  had  sought  its  sequestred  repose, 

And  the  warm  breath  of  Spring  left  its  blush  on  the  rose. 

The  sun  lightly  danced  o'er  valley  and  hill, 
Imprinting  its  smile  on  the  pond  and  the  mill ; 
And  the  gentle  breeze  bore,  from  the  flowering  thorn, 
To  my  ear  the  sweet  notes  of  the  Oriole's  song. 

A  carpet  of  green  o'er  the  meadows  was  spread, 
On  which  the  light  dew-drops  their  kisses  had  shed ; 
And  a  few  scattered  clouds  in  the  heaven's  serene, 
At  intervals  threw  a  dark  change  o'er  the  scene. 

I  gazed,  and  the  thought  of  the  change  that's  been  made 
Since  the  red  man's  shout  rang  through  the  wild  forest 

shade, 

When  the  smoke  of  his  wigwam  encircled  the  brakes, 
And  his  birch-bark  canoe  bounded  light  o'er  the  lakes. 

When  the  warrior  stood  forth  in  his  glory  and  pride, 
And  the  youth  with  all  reverence  knelt  by  his  side ; 
When  the  red  mother  played  with  her  babe  on  the  green, 
And  bright  hopes  of  the  future  enlivened  the  scene. 

But,  alas,  they  are  gone !  not  a  trace  now  remains 
Of  that  once  noble  race,  but  their  valleys  and  plains  ; 
And  the  works  of  the  pale-face  are  spread  far  and  wide, 
O'er  the  lands  where  the  red  man  was  wont  to  reside. 


20  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


FAITH    IN    GOD. 

What  is  it  to  have  Faith  in  God  ?    Go  ask  the  laughing 

rill 
That  dances  o'er  the  mossy  roots,  and  down  the  sloping 

hill; 

It  does  not  look  ahead  to  find  obstructions  in  its  way, 
But  trustingly  goes  laughing  on,  like  little  boys  at  play. 

What  is  it  to  have  Faith  in  God  ?     Go  watch  the  bird  and 

see 
How  in  the  Spring  she  builds  her  nest  upon  some  naked 

tree; 
She  does  not  wait  for  Summer's  shade,  but  brings  her 

sticks  and  mud, 
Trusting  in  God  for  future  leaves — now  folded  in  the  bud. 

Then  why  should  man — God's  noblest  work — distrust  His 
noblest  power ; 

Why  is  it  that  his  faith  grows  dim  in  every  trying  hour  ? 

Can  he  not  see  on  Nature's  page  the  wisdom  there  dis- 
played ; 

How  all  things  tend  to  harmonize,  His  loving  hand  hath 
made? 

Canst  thou  not  climb  the  flowery  mount  because   thy 

neighbors  sin  ? 
Reverse  thy  spectacles,  oh  man,  the  trouble  is  within ! 


FAITH   EST  GOD.  21 

Weed  out  the  garden  in  ihy  heart,  and  make  it  hallowed 

ground ; 
No  longer  keep  a  lightning  rod  to  draw  the  troubles 

round ! 

Canst  thou  not  find  a  pearl,  or  gem,  among  the  rubbish 

here, 

To  deck  thy  spirit's  diadem  for  yonder  heavenly  sphere  ? 
To  me  all  things,  however  dark,  contain  a  truth  divine ; 
Why  look  for  them  by  candle-light,  when  God's  great 

sun  doth  shine  ? 

Shall  I  distrust  my  Father's  laws  because  my  eyes  are 

dim ! 
Though  pain  is  mixed  with  pleasure  here,  shall  I  not 

trust  in  Him  ? 

My  kingdom  is  not  all  of  earth — the  spiral  stairs  of  love 
I  climb,  and  hold  communion  with  the  angel  ones  above  ! 

I  thank  my  God,  He  has  prepared  for  me  some  shady 

bowers ; 
If  briars  and  thistles  did  not  grow,  we  should  not  love 

the  flowers. 

I  see  a  ray  of  dawning  light  in  all  the  broils  and  jars — 
If  God  had  given  us  no  night  we  could  not  see  the  stars. 


22  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

• 


LETTER  NUMBER    ONE. 

Jan.  30$. — I've  been  sitting  here  in  the  light  of  the 
fire-shine,  *LUTHER,  wondering  if  I  should  write  a  series 
of  letters  on  Country  Life  as  I  experience  it.  Would 
any  one  care  to  read  them?  You  know  what  a  mad 
worshiper  I  am  of  all  things  rural,  and  how  closely  I  am 
allied  to  Nature — then  wonder  not  if  I  run  away  from 
the  old  conservative  order  to  chat  awhile  with  genii  in 
hidden  grottos. 

They  call  me  odd  and  strange  because  I  had  rather  sit 
on  the  hay-mow  under  the  eaves  in  the  old  barn  and  lis- 
ten to  the  wintry  winds  whistling  through  the  mossy 
shingles,  and  the  creak  of  the  time-worn  weather-vane, 
than  to  stay  in  the  house  and  hear  Jacob  read  the  Con- 
gress news ;  for  they  know  not  that  when  I  am  lying  on 
the  hay  in  the  old  barn-loft,  gazing  in  ardent  admiration 
on  the  pretty  snowflakes  forming  themselves  into  wreaths 
on  the  dusty  rafters  as  they  blow  in  through  the  pigeon 
hole,  that  I  am  studying  the  science  which  opens  to  our 
view  the  wondrous  creations  of  the  world. 

Environed  by  Nature's  loveliness,  and  reared  among 
her  haunts,  is  it  strange  that  I  learned  to  love  her  ?  She 
it  was  that  first  introduced  me  into  life :  she  fed  me  with 
milk  when  a  babe,  and  when  my  eyes  became  strong 
and  my  ears  keen  enough  to  hear  her  whisperings,  she 
told  me  to  look  around  and  see  that  all  were  my  brothers 

NOTE.—*  LUTIIEB  COLBY,  editor  of  the  Banner  of  Light. 


LETTER  NUMBER  ONE.  23 

and  sisters,  and  bade  me  love  them  as  such.  She 
cradled  me  in  her  mossy  blankets,  and  spread  down  her 
green,  grassy  carpets  for  me  to  dance  upon ;  and  when 
my  brow  was  tired  and  feverish,  and  my  spirit  sad  and 
weary,  she  bathed  me  with  her  dewdrops,  and  sang  my 
soul  into  harmony  again  with  her  song  birds  and  stream- 
lets. Then  why  should  I  distrust  her  ?  I  may  be  odd 
and  strange — Jacob  says  I  am — but  then  I  am  not  heart- 
less, LUTHER.  If  I  only  knew  how  to  touch  the  heart- 
strings, sweet  music  would  be  discoursed;  when  the 
strings  are  rudely  swept,  one  should  not  expect  to  hear 
pleasant  tones. 

How  sad  it  seems  to  be  so  often  misunderstood !  But 
then  we  should  remember  that  the  inward  light  goes  out 
when  placed  in  the  air-current  of  the  world's  breath. 
We  should  seek  for  simplicity  and  truth,  however  odd 
Ave  may  appear  to  others.  I  mean  that  simplicity  of 
true  greatness,  the  sirnplicty  that  is  insensible  to  the 
frivolities  of  life,  that  is  not  attracted  by  its  gloss  and 
glitter,  by  its  follies  and  false  pretensions. 

If  the  world  likes  us  for  this,  it  is  a  very  pleasant 
incident ;  if  it  does  not  like  us  for  being  true  and  simple, 
we  can  well  afford  to  do  without  its  love,  for  there  is 
ample  compensation  in  its  realities,  so  that  we  need  no 
other  reward. 


24  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


HALL'S  BROOK.* 

It  sprang  to  life,  this  little  brook, 

Among  the  leaves  and  rushes, 
Then  forced  itself  through  rock  and  root, 

In  little  jets  and  gushes ; 
It  stops  to  take  a  cooling  bath 

Beneath  the  maple  shadows, 
Then  runs  along  its  crooked  path, 

Through  all  the  grassy  meadows ; 
It  strings  its  silver  beads  along 

The  sunny  way  before  us, 
And  while  it  sings  its  little  song 

I  sing  to  you  the  chorus. 

It  runs  through  roots  of  fern  and  brake, 

That  form  a  natural  filter ; 
It  waits  awhile — a  little  lake, 

Where  Ephraim  dips  his  pitcher — 
Then  sliding  through  the  mossy  flume 

Above  the  rocky  ledges, 
It  dashes  down  its  living  tomb 

Around  the  laurel  hedges ; 
It  sprawls,  it  frets,  it  moves  along 

The  shady  path  before  us ; 
And  while  it  sings  its  little  song, 

I  sing  to  you  the  chorus. 

XOTK.  —  *  Thatchwood  Cottage,  the  residence  of  the  author,  stands  near 
this  brook. 


HALL'S  BROOK.  25 

It  hides  within  its  crystal  tanks 

The  little  trout  and  perches  ; 
The  children  sport  its  mossy  banks, 

With  fishing  rods  of  birches ; 
And  when  the  moonbeams  o'er  it  play, 

Or  on  its  bosom  quiver, 
It  catches  up  each  golden  ray, 

And  dances  to  the  river. 
Oh,  many  a  truth  it  brings  along, 

And  holds  them  up  before  us, 
And  while  it  sings  its  little  song, 

I  sing  to  you  the  chorus. 

'It  drinks  the  health  to  old  and  young, 

It  makes  no  bloated  noses  ; 
It  keeps  the  harp  of  life  well  strung, 

And  paints  the  cheeks  with  roses ; 
It  has  a  little  mirror-bowl 

In  all  its  drinking  places, 
That  those  who  sip  may  there  behold 

Their  cheerful  happy  faces ; 
It  bids  us  in  the  right  be  strong, 

It  points  the  way  before  us, 
And  while  it  sings  its  little  song, 

I  sing  to  you  the  chorus. 


26  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


WELL   YOU   LOVE    ME   WHEN   I'M    OLD? 

Will  you  love  me  when  I'm  old — 

When  a  score  of  years  have  fled, — 
When  the  wavy  locks  and  sunny  curls 
Are  white  upon  my  head  ? 
When  the  rosy  lip 
And  sparkling  eye 
Have  grown  pale  and  dim  by  age  ? 
When  merry  wit 
And  sorrow's  sigh, 
Has  filled  life's  checkered  page  : 
Will  you  love  me  when  I'm  old  ? 

Will  you  love  me  when  I'm  old, 

And  lean  upon  a  staff; 

When  my  mellow  voice  sounds  hard  and  cold, 
And  I  lose  my  mei-ry  laugh  ? 

When  Time  shall  come 
And  rudely  seek, 
Despite  my  prayers  and  tears, 
To  write  upon 
My  faded  cheek 
The  number  of  my  years  : 
Will  you  love  me  when  I'm  old  ? 

Will  you  love  me  when  I'm  old — 
When  my  sands  are  nearly  run  ? 
I  shall  need  some  Mend  in  the  silent  time, 


WILL  YOU  LOVE  ME  WHEN  I'M  OLD.  27 

Should  there  be  more  cloud  than  sun ! 
Will  you  wait  for  me 
Upon  the  shore  ? 
Will  you  let  your  love  abide, 
Till  friendly  Death 
Shall  take  me  o'er, 
Beyond  the  misty  tide : 
Will  you  love  me  when  I'm  old  ? 


28  FOEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

- 


LINES, 

In  answer  to  Cousin  Benja's  ''Will  you  Love  me  when  Pm 
Old?" 

BY   S.   BICKER. 

Love  that  is  truthful, 

Its  object  will  seek, 
Though  youth  and  beauty 

Have  fled  from  the  cheek, 
And  dark  flowing  locks 

Lie  scattered  and  grey, — 
Hearts  that  are  truthful 

Will  never  give  way. 

You  loved  in  life's  spring, 

When  flowers  looked  fair ; 
Will  you  love  me  in  autumn, 

Which  no  flowers  bear  ? 
Summer  and  beauty 

Must'  glide  with  the  past, — 
Too  frail  is  the  germ 

In  winter  to  last. 

You  loved  the  soft  tint 

That  lay  on  my  cheek ; 
You  loved  the  bright  ray 

Im  the  eyes  that  were  meek. 
The  heart's  affections 

Are  tender  and  true, 
Though  eye  and  cheek  wear 

A  time-stricken  hue. 


LINfcS.  29 

Yes,  true  love  will  last, 

Though  Time 's  on.  the  wing, — 
Still  more  enduring 

In  autumn  than  spring. 
Then  come  to  my  bosom, 

My  time-stricken  dear, 
Thou  hast  in  future 

No  rival  to  fear ! 


30  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


WEARY!    WEARY! 

BY  ANNIE   EMER. 

I  am  tired  of  the  world,  Cousin  Benja, 

For  it  starves  me  and  freezes  me,  too. 
Have  you  ever  watched  its  pretensions 

To  friendship,  and  found  them  untrue  ? 
Have  you  linked  hands  with  strangers  and  found  them 

Cool-headed,  cool-hearted  and  wise, 
Over-reaching  your  thoughtless  affection 

With  their  far-seeing,  practical  eyes  ? 

Have  you  turned  in  disgust  from  their  pitying, 

When  you  learned  bitter  lessons  like  me — 
That  each  friend  (  ?)  sought  his  own  selfish  pleasures, 

And  paid  for  them  mercilessly  ? 
There  !  the  thought  is  unworthy  and  cruel, 

I  will  not  accept  it  for  truth ; 
Nor  have  I  for  such  wicked  prudence 

Bartered  all  the  bright  sunshine  of  youth. 

But  if  there's  peace  in  your  wee  Thatchwood  Cottage— 

If  strife  and  contentions  ne'er  come 
To  mar  with  unmusical  discords 

The  charm  of  that  pleasant  word  Home — 
Say,  may  I  not  pause,  Cousin  Benja, 

World-wearied,  heart-sick  and  soul-weak, 
To  rest  for  an  hour  by  its  hearthstone, 

And  list  to  the  strong  words  you  speak  ? 


REPLY  TO  ANME  EMER.  31 


REPLY    TO    AXKIE    EMER. 

What !  tired  of  the  world,  Annie  Emer, 

Tired  of  the  beautiful  show  ? 
Hast  thou  failed  to  discern  through  the  glimmer, 

The  light  that  is  destined  to  glow  ? 
To  me  it  is  really  a  pleasure, 

And  life  is  a  beautiful  tramp, 
Where  each  one  is  filling  his  measure 

By  the  light  of  his  own  Itttle  lamp. 

I  know  that  its  pathway  is  winding, 

And  the  future  is  hard  to  discern ; 
But  the  joy  in  a  walk  is  the  finding 

Something  new  every  corner  we  turn. 
And  although  there  is  much  that  seems  homely, 

If  we  study  the  problem  to  win, 
We  shall  find  their  surroundings  are  only 

The  cause  of  their  darkness  and  sin ! 

And  should  friendship  prove  wanting,  when  tested, 

Yield  not  to  despair — try  again ; 
You  will  find  that  true  love  thus  invested 

Will  bring  rich  rewards  in  the  end. 
Let  us  then  take  the  world  as  we  find  it, 

Believing,  if  well  understood, 
There  is  n't  more  shadow  than  sunshine, 

There  is  n't  more  evil  than  good. 


32  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

You  ask,  is  there  peace  in  our  cottage, 

If  our  hearthstone  is  free  from  all  strife, 
If  unmusical  discords  ne'er  enter, 

To  mar  the  sweet  sunshine  of  life  ? 
Ah  yes,  we  oft  meet  with  the  tempter, 

And  yield  to  his  absolute  sway ; 
But  we  find  it  unpleasant,  nor  venture 

Again  to  be  found  in  his  way. 

Then  come,  if  you  wish  our  protection, 
For  our  door  is  open,  that  all 

May  rest  in  our  nest  of  affection, 
If  they  feel  it  a  pleasure  to  call. 


MOTHER  OF    MINE.  33 


"MOTHER   OF   MINE." 

Under  the  shade  of  my  grandfather's  woods, 

In  a  brown  little  cottage  half  hid  in  its  arms, 
Where  Nature  speaks  out  in  her  mystical  words, 

And  a  meadow  brook  kindly  is  lending  its  charms — 
Where  the  little  ducks  float  on  its  silvery  breast, 

And  the  birds  'sing  above  in  the  musical  pine  ; 
Aside  from  the  naughty  old  world,  quite  at  rest, 

Dwells  the  heart-loving,  soul-loving  mother  of  mine. 

Under  the  shade  of  my  grandfather's  woods, 

Late  in  the  evening  and  early  at  morn, 
Mother  is  seen  in  her  garden  of  herbs, 

Father  is  seen  in  his  garden  of  corn. 
Ah !  lucky  was  he  when  he  sought  for  a  wife, 

For  a  better  one  never  on  earth  could  he  find, 
To  help  wheel  along  the  great  wagon  of  life, 

Than  the  heart-loving,  soul-loving  mother  of  mine. 

Ever  ready  is  she  with  her  cruise  and  her  basket, 

And  can  give  for  a  proof  that  I'm  telling  no  lie, 
A  host  of  true  souls  in  and  out  of  the  casket, 

And  a  note  on  demand  at  her  bank  in  the  sky ! 
And  so  thin  is  the  veil  that  is  hanging  between, 

That  I  have  not  a  doubt  but  the  angels  divine 
Often  come  down  through  the  shadows  unseen 

To  the  heart-loving,  soul-loving  mother  of  mine. 


84  POEMS   A2STD  LETTERS. 

Talk  of  your  mansions  of  free-stone  and  granite, 

Of  its  towers,  and  verandahs,  French  windows  and 

hoods — 

But  keep  back  the  vices  that  privately  haunt  it, 
When  you  laugh  at  the  cottage  near  grandfather's 

woods ; 
For  I  know  of  some  ladies  that  ride  in  a  carriage, 

And  have  a  rich  husband  that  comes  home  to  dine, 
Who  would  give  all  their  wealth  for  a  share  in  the 

cottage, 
With  the  heart-loving,  soul-loving  mother  of  mine. 

Contented  we  live  'neath  the  shade  and  the  roses, 

My  father  and  mother,  my  sister  and  I ; 
For  God  wrote  our  creed  in  the  days  of  old  Moses, 

And  handed  it  down  through  a  hole  in  the  sky. 
Then  come  out  and  see  us,  ye  savans  of  knowledge — 

Some  crumbs  from  our  table  may  be  for  your  good ; 
You  will  find  us  at  home  in  our  brown  little  cottage, 

Under  the  shade  of  my  grandfather's  wood ! 


SPIRIT  WHISPERINGS.  35 


SPIRIT   WHISPERINGS. 

I  will  wait  for  thee,  my  brother, 
In  the  land  where  I  have  gone ; 

I  will  cheer  thee  on,  my  brother, 
With  my  sweetest  notes  of  song. 

When  thy  brow  is  tired  and  weary, 
And  thy  eyes  with  tears  o'erflow ; 

When  all  things  seem  dark  and  dreaiy, 
In  thy  earthly  home  below ; 

When  the  strange  mysterious  influence, 
Steals  upon  the  passive  brain, 

Trust  in  God  for  that  assurance, 
That  shall  follow  in  its  train. 

Strive  no  longer  to  destroy  it, 

Give  away  to  its  control — 
Light  shall  come  from  clouds  of  darkness, 

Peace  shall  gather  round  thy  soul ! 

Analyze  and  find  the  treasure, 
Bosomed  in  each  passive  thought ; 

Every  thing  shall  find  its  measure — 
Nothing  here  shall  come  to  naught. 

Clouds  may  rise  to  hide  thy  vision, 
Dim  the  light  too  bright  for  thee ; 

Storms  break  o'er  thy  sweet  elysian, 
Leaving  ripples  on  life's  sea. 


36  POEMS    AND    LETTERS. 

Yet  a  calm  both  sweet  and  holy, 
Soon  shall  gather  round  thy  soul ; 

Love's  own  mantle  shall  enfold  thee, 
Waves  of  peace  around  thee  roll. 

Put  thy  trust  in  God,  my  brother, 
Let  truth  ever  be  thy  chart ; 

Charity  for  one  another, 
Maketh  up  the  counterpart. 


MY  LITTLE  PLAYMATE.  37 


MY   LITTLE    PLAYMATE. 

We  lived  together,  Ravalett  and  me, 

We  played  the  same  games  'neath  the  same  orchard  tree, 

As  loving  and  happy  as  mortals  could  be — 

My  dear  little  cousin ; 

So  gentle  and  kind  that  you  could  but  adore, 
And  I  loved  him  the  best,  though  I  had  many  more — 

Nearly  a  dozen. 

His  face  was  so  fair,  with  a  sweet  little  nose, 

And  his  cheeks — they  were  red  like  our  grandmother's 

rose, 
While  his  hair  was  so  wild,  like  the  wind  when  it  blows, 

And  his  bright,  laughing  eyes 
Were  black  like  a  cloud  when  the  thunder  is  in  it ; 
They  would  sparkle  and  twinkle  all  around  in  a  minute, 

Like  the  stars  in  the  skies. 

We  linked  hand  in  hand,  and  we  ran  down  the  glade, 
To  dance  in  the  grass  that  grew  under  the  shade, 
All  spotted  with  gold  that  the  buttercups  made 

With  their  bright  little  heads ; 

And  we  looked  in  the  hearts  of  the  tender  young  flowers, 
And  thought  them  as  happy  and  busy  as  ours, 

Making  their  seeds. 

Oh,  well  I  remember — for  it  does  not  seem  long 

Since  the  great  mellow  sunshine  laughed  out  in  the  morn, 

When  they  sent  us  a  letter  and  said  he  was  gone — 

He  died  with  the  brave. 

Though  I  loved  him  the  best  —  I  had  neai-ly  a  dozen  — 
I  shall  see  nothing  more  of  my  dear  little  cousin. 

Not  even  a  grave. 
4 


POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


NATURE'S    WHISPERINGS. 

How  can  you  doubt  that  spirit  friends 

Dwell  in  some  bright  and  happy  sphere, 
When  every  day  your  Father  sends 

So  many  proofs  around  you  here  ? 
Have  you  not  seen  the  garden  worm 

Pass  through  its  grave,  the  chrysalis  ? 
Then  wherefore  does  your  spirit  yearn 

For  greater  proof  than  this  ? 

Have  you  not  seen  the  forest  oak 

Stripped  of  its  leaves  by  Autumn's  cold  ? 
Though  Winter  all  his  powers  evoke, 

He  reacheth  not  its  soul ! 
The  spirit  of  the  oak  survives 

The  chilling  blast  of  Winter's  reign  ; 
And  when  the  Spring  again  shall  smile, 

It  puttoth  forth  its  leaves  again. 

Have  you  not  seen  the  god  of  day, 

Grown  weary  with  his  march  and  song, 
Pass  through  the  darkened  midnight  gate 

To  greet  again  the  smiling  morn  ? 
All  Nature  bids  you  to  behold 

The  changes  through  which  all  things  go  ; 
To  cleanse — to  purify  the  soul, 

That  higher  truths  may  flow. 

The  worm  that  creeps  upon  the  ground 
Must  slumber  to  recruit  its  powers, 


NATURE'S  WHISPERINGS.  39 

Ere 'it  can  rise  and  float  around, 

On  rainbow  wings,  'mid  Summer  flowers. 

So  man,  with  all  his  boasted  strength, 
Must  bow  to  laws  he  knows  not  of; 

Accept  their  truths,  and  be  content 
To  win  them  through  the  Heaven  of  love. 


40  POEMS  AND   LETTERS. 


THE    MORNING   LESSON. 

i 
'Tis  a  beautiful  morn  in  the  May-time, 

All  Nature  is  dancing  with  joy, 
And  when  she  comes  round  by  my  window, 
Throws  in  a  sweet  kiss  for  her  boy ! 

For  she  knows  I  am  one  of  her  children, 
That  she  is  my  friend  and  my  mother ; 

That  I'm  willing  to  be  led  by  her  always, 
And  will  not  be  led  by  another. 

She  of  late  has  been  talking  in  riddles, 
Jack  Frost  has  been  giving  charades ; 

Acting  tableaux  in  the  gardens, 
Dancing  around  in  the  glades. 

Some  people  began  her  to  slander, 
And  thought  she  was  getting  insane — 

Just  because  they  could  not  understand  her, 
And  so  Mother  Nature  was  blamed. 

It  is  true  they  came  out  to  Thatchwood 

One  night  at  a  very  late  hour ; 
And  while  stringing  some  pearls  for  the  maples, 

By  accident  trod  on  a  flower ! 

Next  morning  they  came  with  the  twilight, 

And  bathed  it  all  over  with  dews  ; 
Then  warmed  up  its  soul  with  the  sunshine, 

And  'tis  now  twice  as  strong  for  the  bruise. 


THE  MORNING  LESSON.  41 

So  I  learned  me  a  truth  by  the  lesson, 

And  now  I  have  made  the  resolve, 
To  ever  be  slow  in  condemning, 

And  wait  till  the  problem  is  solved. 

And  thus  with  the  children  of  Nature, 
How  many  are  doomed  to  be  blamed ; 

Because  the  great  world  in  its  hurry, 
Don't  wait  to  hear  them  explain. 

But  out  in  the  future  before  us, 
We  all  shall  be  read  and  be  known ; 

Then  turn  round  ye  time-wheels  more  quickly, 
And  hasten  us  weary  ones  home. 


42  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

• 


WEALTH   AND    WORTH. 

There  are  thousands  acres  bending 

With  the  weight  of  waving  grain ; 
There  are  thousands  flocks  extending 

Over  valley,  hill  and  plain — 
Very  many  wheels  are  turning, 

Many  sails  are  on  the  sea ; 
But  among  their  heaps  of  treasure, 

Not  one  ounce  belongs  to  me ! 

I  care  not  who  may  count  the  wealth 

In  the  fields  of  waving  grain, 
Or  who  has  power  to  regulate 

The  commerce  of  the  main ; 
They  cannot  issue  dividends, 

In  sunlight,  air  nor  sea, 
Or  bottle  up  the  balmy  air, 

To  retail  out  to  me. 

What  care  I  for  deeds  or  titles, 

Silver  coins  and  bags  of  gold  ? 
They  to  me  are  nought  but  trifles — 

They  are  what  depraves  the  soul ! 
I've  a  treasure  in  the  mountains, 

In  the  flowers  and  in  the  sea ; 
In  the  songs  of  birds  and  fountains — 

These  hold  treasures  dear  to  me. 

Then  throw  aside  thy  sinful  pleasure, 
Tread  the  straight  and  pleasant  road ; 


WEALTH  AND   WORTH.  43 

Seek,  oh,  seek  a  heavenly  treasure, 

One  that  never  can  corrode. 
Learn  to  love  the  great  Creator, 

Read  His  works  in  all  abroad ; 
Strive  to  be  a  true  partaker, 

True  to  Nature,  true  to  God ! 


44  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


KEEP   NEARER    TO    THY    GOD. 

When  in  youth's  downy  path  you  tread, 

And  joy  seems  ever  nigh ; 
When  not  a  cloud  is  overhead, 

And  pleasure's  sun  is  high ;   • 
Remember  in  those  sunny  walks, 

Earth's  fallen  ones  have  trod ; 
Keep  nearer  to  thy  God,  young  man, 

Keep  nearer  to  thy  God ! 

When  manhood's  dawn  lights  up  the  glade, 

Pictured  by  fame  and  art, 
And  not  a  shadow  comes  to  shade 

The  Spring-time  of  the  heart ; 
Be  careful  how  you  stir  the  soil, 

There  is  poison  in  the  sod — 
Keep  nearer  to  thy  God,  young  man, 

Keep  nearer  to  thy  God ! 

Forget  not  that  the  brightest  morn 

Oft  brings  the  darkest  night ; 
That  fortune  blows  her  silver  horn 

From  dizzy  mountain's  height. 
The  deadly  serpent  often  coils 

Where  grows  the  greenest  sod — 
Keep  nearer  to  thy  God,  young  man, 

Keep  nearer  to  thy  God  ! 

Tear-drops  may  dim  the  brightest  eye, 
Life's  after-fires  burn  low ; 


KEKP  NEARER  TO  THY   GOD.  45 

And  cause  the  lightest  heart  to  sigh 

In  sorrow,  grief  and  woe ; 
And  worldly  cares,  and  rnadly  strife, 

May  round  thy  spirit  throb ; 
Keep  nearer  to  thy  God,  young  man, 

Keep  nearer  to  thy  God  1 


46  I'OEMS   AND  LETTEKS. 


LINES.* 

Dear  mother,  listen  to  my  song, 

It  thiills  my  very  soul ; 
I  feel  that  I  shall  pass  away, 

While  you  are  growing  old. 
But,  mother,  do  not  weep  for  me, 

While  waiting  here  below ; 
I  shall  return  to  breathe  my  love — 
"  The  angels  told  me  so !  " 

I  have  a  little  sister  dear, 

In  yonder  spirit  home ; 
She's  looking  o'er  the  battlements, 

And  beck'ning  me  to  come ; 
So,  when  the  angels  call  for  me, 

I  certainly  must  go ; 
She  wants  her  brother  with  her  there — 

"  The  angels  told  me  so.  " 

And,  mother,  when  your  locks  grow  grey, 

And  father's  eyes  grow  dim, 
When  you  shall  hear  the  music  play 

From  Heaven's  seraphim, 
We'll  come  down  like  a  spirit  lark, 

When  you  are  called  to  go, 
And  load  you  o'er  the  river  dark — 

"  The  angels  told  me  so." 


NOTE.  —  *  These  lines,  and  the  three  following  pieces,  were  set  to  music  by 
Cousin  Beiija,  and  often  sung  by  him  at  his  home. 


THE   LITTLE   ONE.  47 


TILE    LITTLE    ONE. 

It  was  a  bright  September  morning, 

In  the  Autumn  of  the  year, 
When  the  birds  were  going  southward, 

And  the  leaves  were  brown  and  sere, 
That  a  little  band  of  angels 

Left  their  home  to  visit  earth — 
And  they  hovered  o'er  our  cottage, 

Singing  of  the  "  second  birth." 

On  a  couch  of  snowy  whiteness, 

Sick  of  life  and  tired  of  play, 
Lay  our  little  darling  sister, 

Waiting  for  the  break  of  day ; 
For  the  angels  then  were  coming, 

Pain  and  sorrow  to  subdue — 
And  they  took  our  little  darling 

To  their  home  beyond  the  blue. 

Now  when  twilight  gathers  round  us, 

And  the  stars  are  in  the  sky, 
Gently  down  the  shining  pathway 

Comes  our  darling  from  on  high — 
And  in  silent  whispering  tells  us 

Of  her  spirit  home  above, 
Where  she,  with  holy  angels, 

Dwells  in  purity  and  love. 

Whonjtemptations  round  me  gather, 
Oft  methinks  IJiear  her  say, 


48  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

"  Brother,  let  the  spirit-teachings 
Lead  thee  in  the  better  way. 

Weep  not,  father,  weep  not,  mother — 
Tears  no  more  your  eyes  shall  fill ; 

Weep  not,  sister,  weep  not,  brother — 
I  will  be  your  darling  still.1' 


THATCHWOOD   COTTAGE  SONG.  49 


THATCHWOOD  COTTAGE*  SONG. 

In  the  brown  little  cot  by  the  wood-side, 

Just  under  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
Where  man  may  touch  palms  with  the  angels, 

When  the  heart  of  the  great  world  is  still — 
It  is  there  we  are  dwelling  in  gladness, 

Father,  mother,  my  sister  and  me ; 
For  we  never  give  shelter  to  sadness. 

Little  May  always  comes  in  the  Spring-time, 

Her  apron  of  roses  to  spill ; 
Old  Uncle  October  in  Autumn, 

Our  baskets  again  to  refill ! 
And  Nature  is  helping  us  always, 

To  work  out  our  mission  of  love ; 
While  the  angels  come  down  at  the  twilight, 

And  bring  us  good  news  from  above. 

We  have  a  dear  little  sister  in  Heaven, 

That  went  home  with  the  angels  one  morn ; 
And  there  she  is  waiting  to  meet  us, 

And  wants  us  to  hurry  along. 
So  when  we  have  grown  little  older, 

And  our  locks  have  turned  white  like  the  snow, 
She  will  come  with  her  boat,  for  I  told  her 

We  then  should  be  ready  to  go  ! 

And  then  we  shall  all  be  in  Heaven, 
Father,  mother,  my  sisters  and  me ; 

NOTE.  —  *  The  residence  of  Cousin  Benja. 

5 


60  POEMS    AND   LETTERS. 

And  should  we  go  over  before  you, 
We  will  hang  out  a  signal  for  thee ! 

We' will  walk  with  the  mighty  procession, 
Through  paths  that  the  angels  have  trod ; 

And  march  up  the  hill  of  progression, 
Leading  up  to  the  great  fount,  our  God ! 


THREE  LITTLE   VERSES.  51 


THREE   LITTLE   VERSES. 

They  are  fitting  up  a  bower 

In  the  heavenly  fields  above, 
Where  the  children  of  our  Father 

Dwell  in  purity  and  love. 
There  no  dark  superstition 

Mars  the  beauty  of  our  Lord  ; 
Each  one  sees  his  true  condition — 

Each  receives  his  just  reward. 

O  !  .that  children  in  the  earth-life 

Would  but  watch  as  well  as  pray ; 
Live  more  truthful  and  more  Christ-like, 

Growing  stronger  every  day. 
Would  we  feel  the  truth  and  beauty 

Angels  picture  in  their  song, 
Let  us  take  the  cross  of  duty 

Daily,  as  we  march  along ! 

Did  not  Christ,  the  gentle  teacher, 

Tell  us,  when  a  pilgrim  here, 
That  to  know  the  joys  of  Heaven, 

We  must  keep  the  conscience  clear  ? 
Each  should  be  to  each  a  brother, — 

In  his  life  he  told  us  so ; 
Then,  O  let  us  love  each  other 

While  we  are  dwellers  here  below  ! 


62  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


LETTER   NUMBER   TWO. 

Retired  and  quiet  stands  onr  little  brown  home,  cuddled 
down  among  the  hills  and  trees  in  the  green  heart  of  a 
New  England  neighborhood,  not  many  miles  from  that 
time-honored  bay,  whose  waters,  years  ago,  kissed  the 
prow  of  the  Pilgrim  Mayflower.  Bright  and  warm, 
full  of  home-joy  and  comfort,  is  our  little  parlor,  with  its 
cheerful  wood-fire  warming  up  with  a  mellow  light  the 
pictures  and  curtains,  for  you  must  know  we  are  not 
subjects  of  the  air-tight  or  Lehigh,  as  an  old-fashioned 
pair  of  brass  dogs  are  stretching  out  their  yellow  boots 
on  the  hearthstone. 

It  is  true  we  have  none  of  the  glitter  and  glare  of  the 
showy  city;  none  of  that  elegant  furniture  and  silver 
ware  that  rich  people  pride  themselves  in  possessing — 
my  little  seraphim  being  our  only  article  of  rosewood, 
and  the  nine  teaspoons,  standing  in  the  little  blue  pitcher 
that  was  grandmother's,  comprises  our  small  stock  of 
silver;  consequently  we  are  not  troubled  by  Internal 
Revenues  and  tax-gatherers. 

We  have  just  got  up  from  our  simple,  cosy  meal. 
Father  lies  down  to  look  over  the  evening  paper,  while 
mother  takes  away  the  tea-things.  We  had  pancakes 
and  cheese  for  supper — it  is  Valentine's  day,  you  know, 
and  we  like  to  indulge  now  and  then  in  those  old-fashioned 
ways  of  grandmother's.  It  carries  me  back  again  to  the 
time  when,  a  little  child,  I  sat  on  a  low  stool  by  her  side 


LETTER  NUMBER  TWO.  53 

and  listened  to  the  funny  stories  about  the  birds  choosing 
their  mates,  how  the  girls  went  a  harking  to  hear  who 
their  future  husbands  should  be,  and  of  the  queer  look- 
ing valentines  that  were  sent  to  Ruth  through  the  post 
office.  Ah  me,  how  I  wish  somebody  would  send  me  a 
love  missive,  with  a  cupid  riding  on  a  butterfly ! 

To-day  I  thought  I  should  not  write,  but  be  off  to  the 
woods  in  search  of  mosses  and  lichens  ;  for  although  the 
dark  gray  curtains  of  Winter  have  shut  out  the  perfume 
of  the  rose  and  locust  flower,  and  we  hear  no  more  the 
bird-song  in  the  meadow,  yet  I  know  the  Spirit  of  the 
Beautiful  is  abroad,  and  always  comes  when  we  summon 
it.  But  the  brown  clouds  soon  commenced  to  gather  in 
the  sky,  the  wind  blew  fram  the  east,  and  I  knew  that  a 
storm  was  at  hand,  so  I  hastened  home  and  sat  down  by 
the  window  to  await  its  coming.  It  proved  to  be  a  snow 
storm.  Now  I  like  storms  of  all  kinds  ;  but  a  snow  storm 
in  Winter  is  my  choice,  because  it  covers  out  of  sight  all 
the  rude  and  homely  things,  and  converts  the  world  into 
one  great  picture  gallery ;  and  nowhere  does  the  snow 
artist  chisel  so  exquisitely  as  around  some  old  farm- 
house in  the  country. 

Busy  hands  have  commenced  their  magic  work  in  the 
door-yard,  turning  the  gate-posts  into  parian  vases,  and 
transforming  the  homely  old  wood-pile  into  coral  grottos, 
from  whence  roses  unfold  their  snowy  petals  and  came- 
lias  smile  from  out  their  deep  gorges.  Already  has  the 
old  rustic  summer-house  in  the  garden  become  a  thing  of 
beauty,  with  its  columns  of  purest  alabaster,  twined 
around  with  white  morning  glories,  hanging  out  their 
mossy  tassels,  and  sending  up  their  magnificent  leaves 
and  tendrils  to  catch  hold  of  the  arched  roof  of  the  same 
snowy  hue,  fretted  and  carved  like  some  ancient  Gothic 
cathedral. 

It  takes  money  to  buy  antique  vases  and  costly  stat- 
uary ;  but,  thank  God,  the  snow  artist  chisels  for  nothing, 
5* 


54  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

and  gives  it  to  the  poor.  Jacob  calls  this  all  nonsense, 
and  reminds  me  that  I  had  better  be  trying  to  whittle  out 
an  axe  handle — he  is  always  throwing  a  wet  blanket  over 
my  enthusiasm — but  I  tell  him  to  walk  in  his  own  path, 
if  its  light  be  sufficient  for  him,  while  I  choose  to  walk 
where  I  can  clothe  my  thoughts  in  forms  of  beauty, ;  for 
all  things  good  and  pure  come  to  me  through  the  mani- 
festations of  Nature. 

I  will  admit  that  wooden  ware,  like  all  things  material, 
have  their  uses.  Gold  and  silver  coins  sell  for  high 
premiums,  while  ten  shares  of  railroad  stock  will  entitle 
one  to  a  nod  from  the  heads  of  all  the  rich  men  in  the 
village.  They  are  all  very  good  in  their  place,  and  each 
has  its  paltry  value  in  the  market;  but  they  cannot  satisty 
the  cravings  of  the  soul — they  will  never  spiritualize 
mankind.  Railroad  stocks  and  the  price  of  cotton  are 
an  abstraction,  but  thistle-down  and  snow-flakes  floating 
on  the  breeze,  a  pleasing  reality,  because  they  are  gov- 
erned by  immutable  laws  that  bring  us  into  closer 
communion  with  God  and  the  angels. 

There  is  a  spirit  abroad  in  the  air  everywhere,  that 
speaks  itself  always ;  it  is  the  .spirit  of  all  things,  and  is 
the  delight  of  all  things.  The  snow  that  has  fallen 
during  the  day,  and  veiled  old  Mother  Earth  from  our 
sight,  speaks  of  itself  as  it  is — it  speaks  of  nothing  else, 
yet  it  leads  us  to  think  of  much  else.  It  appeals  to  our 
sensibilities  as  nothing  else  has  power.  We  may  not 
give  to  the  snow-flake  the  credit  of  our  emotions  to-day, 
so  unlike  those  of  yesterday,  yet  it  helps  to  make  us 
what  we  are  to-day,  so  unlike  what  we  were  yesterday ; 
and  so  of  all  the  manifestations  of  Nature.  They  appeal 
to  us  each  in  their  varied  emotions  of  beauty,  sublimity 
and  power,  and  that  appeal  reaches  us  with  that  degree 
and  force  with  which  we  have  capacitated  ourselves  to 
receive  its  beauties,  whether  they  be  of  Nature,  litera- 
ture, or  art.  The  great  world  don't  know  this  —  don't 


LETTER  NUMBER  TWO.  55 

know  that  it  takes  from  all  things  just  its  own  degree  of 
development  to  appreciate  those  things.  He  who  has 
reached  but  one  degree,  beholds  naught  but  raging  fury 
and  madness  of  the  elements,  and  deplores  the  labor  the 
storm  will  make,  or  immediately  begins  to  count  on  the 
benefits  in  assisting  him  to  draw  a  load  of  box-logs. 

He  who  has  developed  to  the  second  degree,  would 
correspondingly  draw  from  that  degree  of  influence  that 
the  storm  casts  off  from  itself,  and  it  would  be  propor- 
tioned to  his  condition  in  all  the  particular  phrases  of  his 
own  peculiar  likes  and  dislikes.  And  so  on  up  the  hill 
of  development,  until  we  find  him  inquiring  of  the  snow- 
flake  from  whence  it  came  and  how.  If  it  ever  was  a 
dew-drop  in  the  pearly  nectar  clip  of  some  Southern 
flower  ?  You  will  find  him  inquiring  if  that  attraction 
that  drew  those  liquid  elements  together,  and  caused 
them  to  embrace  each  other,  was  in  a  minor  degree  the 
same  moving  spirit  of  the  universal  mind  that  attracts 
affinities,  and  causes  them  to  blend  in  one  holy  reunion 
of  kindred  spirits.  And  he  would  receive  from  the  snow- 
flake  that  degree  of  intelligence  that  his  own  active 
development  called  out. 

And  so  on  through  all  things,  we  take  that  which  we 
are  developed  to  receive ;  thus  a  person's  loves  and 
hates  determine  to  a  discriminating  mind  his  degree  of 
development.  People  don't  realize  this  truth,  neither  do 
they  know  that  like  all  things  in  Nature,  they  themselves 
give  off  their  influence  ;  consequently  a  susceptible  person 
knows  whether  they  are  of  the  rose  nature,  or  of  the 
onion  —  whether  of  the  thistle,  or  of  the  down. 


56  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


FLOWERS. 

There  are  three  things  that  I  have  a  most  absorbing 
passion  for — trees,  flowers  and  birds ;  but  to-day  I  hardly 
know  which  I  love  best ;  but  I  think  I  shall  be  off  to  the 
wildwood  in  quest  of  flowers.  From  my  school-boy 
days  I  have  always  been  a  lover  of  flowers.  On  the 
bank  of  the  "silver  lake  "was  a  fine  place  for  early 
flowers ;  and  many  a  time  did  I  hide  away  from  my 
schoolmates  in  quest  of  the  very  earliest  flowers  of 
Spring. 

One  day,  while  brushing  away  the  decaying  leaves  of 
last  year,  I  came  upon  the  lovliest  bunch  of  Mayflowers, 
opening  their  little  sparkling  eyes  to  the  sunshine.  You 
cannot  imagine  the  joy  they  gave  me,  as  I  bounded  off 
to  carry  them  to  my  teacher ;  and  I  well  remember  the 
eager  pleasure  with  which  she  received  them,  and  her 
face  mantled  with  sweet  smiles,  as  she  greeted  the 
beloved  flowers.  Would  that  I  could  strew  flowers  along 
the  path  of  every  brother  and  sister  hi  the  land. 

What  unheard-of  quantities  of  flowers  have  I  taken 
from  their  shady  birth-places  to  my  little  garden,  which 
my  father  gave  me.  And  then  how  have  I  pitied  them, 
for  fear  they  would  not  live ;  but  flowers  always  thrive 
with  me  as  if  they  knew  I  loved  them ;  and  I  sometimes 
thought  they  did ;  for  the  flowers  have  taught  me  more 
than  words  can  tell.  There  are  those  who  inquire — 
"  What  is  the  use  of  spending  so  much  time  and  money 


FLOWERS.  57 

for  something  to  look  at  ?  "  Poor  mortals  !  they  know 
not  that  "  a  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever."  The  util- 
itarian, perhaps,  will  rebuke  this  trifling  record,  and 
remind  me  that  I  had  better  lay  it  by  or  give  it  to  the 
poor  and  needy.  Most  gladly  would  I  give  a  home  to  all 
the  destitute,  and  ever  ready  am  I  to  share  my  food  with 
the  suffering  poor.  But  gold  and  silver  are  to  me  an 
abstraction;  Morning  Glories  a  most  pleasing  reality. 

Do  not  misunderstand  me,  however;  it  is  simply  my 
way  of  saying  that  gold  and  silver  are  not  wealth.  I 
know  that  public  opinion  is  to  the  contrary,  but  it  is  never- 
theless a  mistake.  Therefore,  blame  me  not  if  I  turn 
aside  from  the  path  of  public  sentiment,  to  gather  flowers 
in  shady  nooks,  and  play  with  geniis  in  hidden  grottos. 


58  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


DIED, 

August  28th,  1864,  SALLY  CUKTIS  BEADFOBD  ;  aged  58  years,  1  month. 

I  thought,  as  I  sat  by  the  lowly  bedside  > 
Of  this  dearly-loved  friend,  that  has  sickened  and  died, 
And  saw  the  sweet  peace  on  her  calm,  patient  face, 
Where  the  angel  of  suffering  had  left  its  deep  trace, 
With  the  seal  of  God's  love  on  her  forehead  so  cold, 
Oh,  blest  is  the  lot  of  her  beautiful  soul ! 

And  I  thought,  is  it  Christian  to  disturb  her  sweet  dream  ? 
Like  rending  the  chords  of  the  heart  though  it  seem ; 
She  had  finished  her  work  in  the  vineyard  below ; 
She  had  bound  up  her  sheaves  and  was  waiting  to  go, 
With  a  soul  full  of  wisdom,  with  a  heart  full  of  love, 
TjO  work  for  her  Lord  in  His  vineyard  above. 

Then  why  should  we  mourn,  for  many  there  be 
Who  hath  loved  her  in  life,  and  are  weeping  with  me ; 
For  she  knew  the  world  only  as  sisters  and  brothers, 
And  has  lived  for  the  good  she  could  do  unto  others ; 
To  comfort  the  aged,  to  rejoice  with  the  young, 
And  has  shown  us  her  faith  by  the  works  she  has  done. 

And  now  as  the  hour  of  departure  drew  near, 
With  her  anchor  and  chart,  she  had  nothing  to  fear ; 
For  God  in  His  Infinite  wisdom  had  given, 
While  she  waited  below,  a  sweet  foretaste  of  Heaven. 
And  the  angels  were  there  with  a  lingering  breath, 
To  light  up  the  way  through  the  valley  of  death. 
Then  taking  the  path  that  our  Saviour  once  trod, 
She  went  up  to  join  in  the  worship  of  God. 


DIED.  59 

Shall  we  weep  ?  shall  we  mourn  that  her  sufferings  are 

o'er? 

Shall  we  wish  her  again  on  this  tiresome  shore  ? 
Do  we  sigh  when  the  flower  gives  way  to  expand 
Its  little  fruit-life  for  the  glory  of  man  ? 
Are  we  heard  to  complain  that  the  acorn  must  fall, 
To  develop  itself  in  its  leaf-covered  hall  ? 

No !  for  we  see  that  progression  is  ever  displayed, 
Through  the  laws  that  our  Father  in  wisdom  hath  made. 
Then  mourn  not  for  those  who  pass  under  the  rod, 
For  their  souls  shall  expand  in  the  glory  of  God ! 

There  is  strength  in  the  thought  that  our  loved  ones  in 

bliss 

Still  love  us  the  same  while  we  tarry  in  this ; 
But  a  joy  to  the  heart  that  can  truly  believe 
In  the  beautiful  truth,  that  we  often  receive 
Some  lesson  of  wisdom,  some  message  of  love, 
To  cheer  us  below  till  we  meet  them  above. 
That  sometimes  the  orient  curtains  unfold, 
To  reveal  the  bright  glow  of  that  shadowless  world ; 
And  sweet  are  the  songs  of  the  angelic  band — 
"We  shall  meet  thee  again  in  that  Beautiful  Land !  " 


.60  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


HOLY   MUSINGS. 

Here  I  am,  seated  once  more  in  my  arbor,  which  is 
one  of  Nature's  own  planting,  and  a  beautiful  one  it  is ; 
carpeted  with  moss,  enameled  with  wild  flowers,  and 
spanned  by  a  canopy  of  foliage,  various  in  shade  and 
hue.  It  is  here  that  I  often  come  when  the  twilight 
smiles,  and  commune  with  Nature,  all  alone  with  God  ! 
How  elevating  the  thought  —  all  alone  with  God  !  No 
profane  oaths  are  heard,  for  the  little  birds  never  take 
the  name  of  their  Creator  in  vain,  but  praise  him  contin- 
ually for  his  goodness  !  No  fretting  is  heard  from  the 
streamlets  to  sadden  the  heart,  for  if  a  rock  or  crag 
obstructs  their  path,  they  turn  one  side  and  dance  on- 
ward, singing  as  merrily  as  ever.  No  discord  is  heard 
among  the  tree-tops ;  though  their  branches  shoot  in 
different  directions,  they  quarrel  not,  but  nod  to  each 
other  lovingly,  for  all  are  striving  upward !  Oh,  that 
man  would  learn  a  lesson  of  wisdom,  and  be  perfect, 
for  Nature  is  a  mine  of  wealth,  and  everything  teaches  a 
lesson  of  instruction ;  from  the  great  oak  that  flutters  its 
myriads  of  leafy  wings  in  the  breeze,  to  the  little  flower 
by  the  wayside ;  from  the  tiny  hi  sect  that  swims  the 
sunny  air  to  the  wave-washed  shell  on  the  sea  shore ! 
Then  come  out  among  them,  ye  thousands  of  hearts-  that 
feel  a  yearning  of  soul  for  something,  ye  know  not 
what !  Nature  will  pay  her  respects  to  you,  and  tell  you 
how  much  she  will  love  you,  and  how  sweetly  she  will 


HOLY  MUSINGS.  61 

smile  upon  you,  if  you  will  listen  to  her  instructions, 
and  give  her  a  passing  thought. 

Nature  is  the  great  missionary  of  God ;  she  preaches 
to  us  forever  in  all  the  tones  of  love,  and  writes  truths  on 
everything;  she  illuminates  the  world  with  stars  and 
sunlight,  and  yet  men  understand  her  not !  Oh,  is  it 
not  the  saddest  of  all  things  to  think  of?  Then  let  me 
say  to  young  and  to  old,  gather  flowers  and  be  happy ; 
teach  the  little  child  to  love  the  beautiful,  and  he  will 
flee  from  the  vicious  and  ungodly ;  do  not  laugh  at  him 
because  the  little  daisy  that  blossoms  in  the  cow-pasture 
delights  him  more  than  bits  of  yellow  gold  in  your  port- 
monaie  !  Suppose  he  never  makes  a  "  stock  holder,"  he 
may  become  an  Angel-teacher  in  the  paradise  of  God ! 
But  I  am  prosing ;  so  I  will  gather  up  my  wild-flowers 
and  oak-knarls.  The  latter  I  will  make  into  something 
pretty,  and  perhaps  before  the  new  moon  that  is  now 
peeping  faintly  through  the  twilight  becomes  big  and 
round,  I  shall  pull  the  string  at  the  Cultivator  office  and 
present  it  to  the  Editor. 


VOEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


HE    IS    DEAD.* 

In  the  quiet,  gray  old  farm-house, 

When  the  corn  was  growing  green ; 
Where  the  sunlight  kissed  the  hill-tops, 

And  the  shadows  lay  between — 
By  the  little  wooden  gate-way, 

There  were  sounds  of  coming  feet ; 
Good-bye,  Father ;  good-bye,  Mother, 

This_was  all  the  lips  could  speak. 

When^the  call  "  to  arms"  was  sounded, 

And  the'jiation's  pulse  beat  low, 
With  heroic  zeal  he  hastened 

To  resist  his  country's  foe. 
With  the  stars  and  stripes  before  him, 

By  his  side  the  glistening  steel ; 
Full  of  hopes  and  manly  courage, 

Entered  he  the  tented  field. 

Well  hejknew  this  great  rebellion 

Would  cost  many  a  precious  life ; 
Knew  the  dangers  must  be  fearful, 

On  that  battle-field  of  strife  ! 
But  he  heeded  not  the  shadows 

Flitting  through  his  heart  and  mind —  • 

*  ALLYN  HOLMES,  Jr.,  cousin  of  Cousin  Benja,  of  Co.  I,  4th  Mass.  Reg't, 
died  in  New  Orleans,  of  typho-malarial  fever,  March  28th,  1863 ;  aged  21 
years,  3  months,  10  days. 


HE   IS   DEAD.  63 

God  and  Union  were  his  watch- words ; 
Liberty  to  all  mankind  ! 

In  the  quiet,  gray  old  farm-house, 

Anxious  hearts  are  waiting  there ; 
Bring,  oh  bring  to  them  some  message, 

Ere  they  yield  to  dark  despair ! 
What  can  mean  this  long  delaying  ? 

Why  should  he  so  soon  forget ! 
I  have  read  the  papers  daily — 

He's  not  in  the  battle  yet ! 

Can  it  be  that  he  has  sick'ned  ? 

He  that  was  so  strong  and  well  ? 
If  he  has,  then  I  should  know  it ; 

Some  one  there  would  be  to  tell ! 
Did  I  say  I  had  been  dreaming  ? 

What  can  mean  that  muffled  sound  ? 
Hark !  it  is  the  death-beat  echo, 

On  the  Southern  camping-ground ! 

Sick !  and  I  not  there  to  nurse  him ; 

I  who  loved  him  as  my  own — 
Dead !  and  no  one  to  caress  him ; 

Far  away  from  friends  and  home. 
From  the  battle — from  the  fever, 

He  has  been  discharged  at  last ; 
Angel,  ope  the  gates  of  Heaven, 

And  let  the  weary  soldier  pass. 

Comrades,  gather  round  your  brother, 

Lay  him  in  the  starry  shroud  ; 
Kiss  him  once  for  his  poor  mother — 

It  may  help  dispel  the  cloud. 
Quietly  he  now  reposes, 

Faded  all  Ms  childhood  dreams ; 
Make  his  grave  among  the  roses, 
•    On  the  shores  of  New  Orleans. 


64  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

He  has  crossed  beyond-the  river, 

Left  his  musket  on  the  shore ; 
*     He  is  now  off  guard  forever — 

He  has  heard  the  muffled  oar ! 
Just  beyond  the  spirit  portals, 

Where  angels  chant  the  Heavenly  joys ; 
In  the  land  of  the  immortals, 

God  will  care  for  soldier  boys. 

One  word  more  to  those  who  hear  me — 

Do  not  chide  the  falling  tear ; 
Many  hearts  respond  the  echo, 

Many  wait  in  hope  and  fear. 
And  to  you,  who  still  possessing 

All  your  friends,  and  social  joys, 
Don't  forget  those  many  blessings 

Cost  the  lives  of  soldier  boys. 


ADVICE   GRATUITOUS.  65 


ADVICE    GRATUITOUS. 

Come  listen,  good  girls,  give  ear  and  attention, 

I've  a  bit  of  advice  to  be. given  away; 
More  especial  to  those  who  have  now  an  intention 

Of  choosing  a  " love  of  a  husband"  some  day. 

I've  been  taking  notes,  in  one  way  and  another, 
Of  this  kind  of  goods,  and  its  true  market  price  ; 

And  I  feel  called  upon,  as  a  friend  and  a  brother, 
To  give  you  a  sensible  bit  of  advice  ! 

When  you  make  your  debut  with  the  little  god  Cupid, 
Look  well  to  the  heart  that  wants  to  exchange ; 

For  there  is  many  a  one  that  is  slothful  and  stupid, 
Touched  up  for  the  sale  with  a  pinion  of  flame. 

You  will  find  there  are  some  that  are  always  a  telling 
Of  what  they  have  done,  and  of  what  they  can  do ; 

But  their  works,  nor  their  words  they  are  never  fulfilling — 
'Tis  only  gas-bubbles  they  are  blowing  for  you. 

Don't  list  a  word  to  their  "  love  in  a  cottage," 

Of  their  "  honest  intentions  to  shield  you  from  labor ; " 

When  they  make  you  their  wife  they  will  keep  you  on 

pottage, 
And  the  deed  of  your  cot  will  belong  to  your  neighbor. 

This  purring  and  cooing  while  you  remain  single, 
Will  do  veiy  well  for  your  air-castle  nest ; 

But  a  dinner  of  beef,  in  a  home  under  shingles, 
You  will  find  quite  essential  to  mix  with  the  rest. 
6* 


66  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

Then  you  will  find  some  of  such  delicate  mind, 

That  they  would  not  say  "smelt,"  it  would  be  such  a 
sin— 

They  belong  to  a  class  called  the  double-refined, 
Be  careful,  good  girls,  they  are  gassy  within. 

Better  wed  some  young  farmer — that  is,  if  you  can, 
With  a  pile  of  rough  boards,  rake,  hatchet  and  hoes ; 

With  a  patch  on  his  knee  and  his  cheek  burnt  with  tan — 
He  is  worth  half-a-score  of  your  dandy  young  beaus. 

What  if  he  don't  come  but  once  in  a  week ; 

What  if  he  don't  call  you  "  dearest"  and  "honey;" 
He  will  give  you  a  home  and  plenty  to  eat — 

A  heart  that  is  true,  and  a  part  of  his  money. 

What  if  he  cannot  sing,  fiddle  and  dance, 
And  make  a  great  noise  about  nothing  at  all  ? 

Does  the  bray  of  the  donkey  his  value  enhance, 
Or  the  mud  in  the  streamlet  give  force  to  the  fall  ? 

Then  don't  be  in  haste  when  you  make  your  selection, 
Choose   a  common-sense  man — be   a  common-sense 
wife ; 

It  may  save  you  from  many  sad  hours  of  reflection, 
As  you  travel  together  down  the  great  march  of  life. 


A  MORNING'S  RAMBLE.  67 


A    MORNING'S    RAMBLE. 

Mr.  Editor : — May  I  tell  you  some  of  the  many  beau- 
ties that  cluster  around  my  cottage  home  ?  It  is  a  little 
romantic  spot,  cuddled  down  lovingly  within  a  circlet  of 
hills  ;  and  from  this,  my  seat  under  the  outstretched  arm 
of  a  fine  oak,  where  I  sit  scribbling,  you  may  see  my 
paths  through  forest,  glen,  field  and  meadow,  bestrewn 
with  flowers.  And  there  is  the  green,  shady  nook,  where 
I  often  sit  beneath  the  towering  maples,  listening  to  the 
merry  notes  of  the  feathered  warblers,  as  they  pour 
forth  their  harmonious  songs !  And  as  you  gaze  east, 
over  the  fields  of  waving  grain,  you  see  the  green  pas- 
tures, with  cows  and  sheep  chewing  their  cud  while 
lying  under  shady  trees  by  the  side  of  the  quiet  pond. 
Oh,  how  I  wish  you  were  here  with  me  this  moment,  Mr. ' 
Editor,  to  drink  in  the  grandeur  of  the  scenery ;  and  if 
your  memory  be  a  daguerreotype  machine,|you  might 
place  this  lovely  landscape  in  the  halls  of  it,  where  you 
could  view  it  when  your  soul  needs  the  refreshings  of 
rural  scenery ! 

It  is  a  beautiful  morning.  Clear  and  gloi'ious  is  the 
sky  above ;  bright  and  beautiful  is  the  earth  beneath.  I 
have  just  returned  from  a  long  ramble  through  fields  and 
meadows,  with  hands  brim  full  of  wild  flowers.  And 
oh,  how  I  love  a  morning  like  this  to  commune  with  God 
"  in  the  temple  of  Nature  !  "  When  I  look  around  among 
my  friends  and  acquaintances,  and  find  so  large  a  num- 


68  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

ber  of  them  that  see  nothing  to  love  in  the  sturdy  oak 
but  its  measurement  in  ship  timber,  and  no  beauty  in  the 
crystal  waterfall  but  its  power  of  labor,  my  heart  pities 
them.  Alas  !  Nature  does  not  speak  to  their  souls  in  the 
soft,  low  tones  of  earnest  love,  as  she  does  to  mine,  for 
they  have  lost  all  their  love  for  child-like  and  gentle 
things.  But  I  must  quit  this  and  hie  away  with  my  wild 
flowers,  and  twine  of  them  a  spiral  ladder  from  earth  to 
heaven,  that  angels  may  descend  and  teach  men  to  fix 
their  attention  more  on  the  beautiful  and  the  good  !  And 
may  your  path  be  strewn  with  the  sweet  flowers  of  piety, 
love  and  truth,  is  the  sincere  wish  of  Cousin  Benja. 


OBITUARY.  69 


["Written  by  request.] 

OBITUARY. 

Died  in  Providence,  R.  I.,  Jan.  3,  1861,  of  scarlet  fever,  MARY  ELIZABETH 
HOLMES,  aged  12  years ;  daughter  of  Lothrop  T.  and  Elizabeth  H.  Holmes. 

It  was  early  in  the  twilight  morn  on  Jordan's  blissful 

strand, 
The  angels  touched  their  golden  harps  to  call  the  spirit 

band, 
'  Then  hung  them  on  the  willow  boughs,  just  on  the  other 

side, 
And  with  the  dreaded  boatman  pale  came  over  on  the 

tide. 

Within  a  bright  and  happy  home,  where  all  was  joy  and 
mirth, 

A  little  child,  that  long  had  been  an  angel  round  the 
hearth, 

Hung  up  her  little  hat  and  shawl,  and  put  her  school- 
books  by, 

And  on  a  couch  of  snowy  white  laid  down  in  youth  to 
die. 

Death  came  and  set  his  signet  seal  upon  that  brow  so 

fair, — 
He  took  the  roses  from  her  cheeks  and   left  the  lilly 

there ; 

Then  folded  up  her  little  hands  upon  her  pulseless  breast, 
Just  like  a  little  lamb,  you  know,  when  lying  down  to 

rest. 

Then  go  and  find  some  pretty  spot  to  lay  the  precious 
'   .  dead, 


70  POEMS  AKD  LETTERS. 

And  Spring  will  bring  forget-me-nots  to  scatter  o'er  her 

head; 
The  stars  will  keep  a  midnight  watch,  the  gentle  winds 

will  play, 
And  birds  will  sing  their  sweetest  songs,  to  chase  the 

gloom  away. 

But  did  there  not  a  spirit  gem  dwell  in  this  little  form, 
That  like  the  stream  came  gushing  forth,  in  merry  laugh 

and  song  ? 
That  shone  from  out  those  sparkling  eyes,  and  danced 

around  her  brow  ? 
Oh  yes,  there  was,  and  let  me  ask,  where  is  that  spirit 

now? 

Is  it  in  some  far,  distant  realm,  above  the  starry  throne, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  thought  the  spirit  finds  its 

home? 

And  will  she  never  come  again,  that  little  family  dove, 
To  whisper  in  her  parent's  ear  some  gentle  words  of 

love? 

Ah  yes,  I  feel  it  must  be  so,  'tis  true  as  it  is  fair, 

She  loved  you  dearly  when  on  earth,  she'll  not  forget 

your  there ; 

For  Heaven's  gates  are  left  ajar,  and  oft  their  golden 
Makes  music,  as  through  them  they  come,  sweet  mes- 
sages to  bring. 

Then  Father,  Mother,  do  not  weep,  but  bless  the  loving 
hand, 

Teat  took  "dear  little  Mary"  home  to  join  the  angel 
band ; 

And  may  she  be  a  guiding  star,  that  God  to  you  has 
given, 

To  guide  you  on,Jthrotigh  faith  and  hope,  to  yon  peren- 
nial Heaven ! 


OBITUAKY.  *  71 


OBITUARY. 

Died  in  Kingston,  Mass.,  Dec.  9th,  1858,  AMANDA  A.,  wife  of  CEPHAS 
WASHBUBN  ;  aged  22  years. 

She  has  crossed  the  dark  river  and  the  deep-rolling  tide  ; 
She  has  gone  to  the  land  where  the  lovely  reside ; 
She  has  left  behind,  like  a  wave-washed  shell, 
The  form  in  which  she  once  did  dwell, 
And  has  passed  away  to  her  home  on  high, 
In  the  land  where  no  shadows  shall  darken  the  sky ; 
And  the  angel-winged  harpers  come  down  the  shore, 
To  sing  and  rejoice  that  her  journey  is  o'er. 

How  beautiful  thus  from  the  earth  to  part, 

With  a  trusting  faith  and  a  pure  young  heart ; 

To  behold  the  glories  now  hid  from  our  view, 

Which  our  eyes  have  not  seen,  and  our  hearts  never 

knew, 

To  twine  into  wreaths  the  fadeless  flowers, 
And  to  roam  with  our  friends  through  the  spirit-bowers ; 
To  tune  our  harps  by  the  shining  band, 
And  learn  the  songs  of  the  better  land  ! 

Though  they  sing  above,  there  is  grief  on  earth, 
For  her  smile  is  missed  by  the  fireside  hearth — 
Her  voice  is  hushed  by  her  husband's  side, 
And  he  weeps  great  drops  for  his  fair  young  bride — 
And  his  eyes  grow  dim,  and  his  form  is  bowed, 
And  he  thinks  of  her  now  in  her  long,  white  shroud, 
And  presses  his  motherless  child  to  his  heart ; 
Oh,  who  can  but  weep  when  the  lovely  depart  ? 


72  *  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

Though  we  mourn  their  departure,  'tis  a  joy  to  believe 

In  the  beautiful  truth,  that  we  often  receive 

Some  lesson  of  wisdom,  or  message  of  love, 

To  cheer  us  below  till  we  meet  them  above ; 

Then,  when  again  the  boatman  pale 

Shall  come  for  us,  with  his  whitened  sail, 

May  he  find  us  a  faithful,  trusting  band, 

And  take  us  home  to  the  better  land. 


OBITUARY.  73 


OBITUARY. 

Died  in  Kingston,  Jan.  8,  1859,  ELISHA.  MCLAUTHLE.V,  Jr.;  aged  33  years, 
9  months. 

Oh,  ye  watchers  of  the  upper  skies,  ye  harpers  on  the 
plain, 

Why  did  you  send  your  gondolier  so  soon  to  earth  again  ? 

And  why,  if  he  must  come  at  all,  dids't  take  our  cher- 
ished one, 

While  others,  sick  and  tired  of  earth,  have  waited  long 
to  come  ? 

Virtue  and  health  had  made  him  strong  to  pass  through 

toil  and  strife, 
To  meet  the  evil  and  the  good,  that  cross  our  path  in 

life; 

And  was  it  not  a  cruel  thing  to  strike  that  fatal  blow, 
While  all  the  true  and  noble  hearts  are  needed  here 

below ! 

Oh  no,  we  do  not  think  it  wrong,  and  would  not  thus 

complain ; 
Although  he's  taken  from  our  view,  he  loves  us  all  the 

same ; 
For  when  they  pass  the  second  birth,  and  breathe  the 

heavenly  sphere, 
They  work  a  greater  good  on  earth  than  when  a  dweller 

here. 

7 


74  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

And  yet  'twas  sad  to  have  him  pass  across  the  darkened 

sea, 
And  all  that  knew  and  loved  him  here,  are  weeping  just 

like  me ; 
Yet  still  we  feel  that  just  beyond,  where  parting  is  no 

more, 
He's  joined  the  happy  spirit-band  of  "loved  ones  gone 

before." 

How  cheering  is  the  thought  that  still  we  have  their 

watchful  care ; 
That  when  with  hearts  bowed  down  with  grief,  we  turn 

to  God  in  prayer, 
They  wander  down  the  shining  track  with  all  their  early 

love, 
And  bring  with  them  a  spirit-balm  of  healing  from 

above. 

And  oft  when  sin  is  lurking  near,  unnoticed  and  unheard, 
To  steal  away  the  sacred  thoughts  that  in  our  bosoms 

stirred, 
Methinks  the  loving,  cheering  words  they  whisper  on  the 

air, 
Sink  down  within  our  heart  of  hearts,  to  shield  it  from 

all  care. 

I  know,  I  fed  the  picture  is  as  true  as  it  is  fair, — 

We  love  each  other  while  on  earth,  we'll  love  each  other 
there ; 

Believing  this  a  "  healing-balm"  shall  reach  the  wound- 
ed part, 

And  peace  shall  fold  her  wings  again  within  the  troubled 
heart. 


ELISHA.  75 


EL1SHA. 

'Tis  twilight  hour, — I've  come  again 

To  sit  where  thou  art  laid ; 
I  thought  to  feel  thy  presence  round 

This  dear  old  forest  shade ; 
You  know  how  often  when  on  earth 

We  walked  beneath  these  trees, 
And  questioned  of  that  second  birth, 

Beyond  the  ether  seas. 

I  told  you  if  I  first  should  go, 

And  leave  this  earthly  sphere, 
I'd  seek  those  hidden  truths  to  know 

That  mystify  us  here. 
And  if  I  had  the  power  to  roam, 

I  oft  would  come  again, 
And  tell  you  of  my  spirit  home, — 

You  promised  me  the  same. 

And  now,  my  clear,  my  faithful  friend, 

So  ever  true  to  me, 
Say,  can  you  read  these  thoughts  I  pen, 

The  thoughts  I  have  of  thee  ? 
And  do  you  know  how  very  oft 

My  spirit  longs  to  fly 
To  starry  chambers  of  the  Lord, 

Beyond  the  ether  sky  ? 


76  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

I  willingly  would  sit  me  down 

And  wash  my  Saviour's  feet ; 
I'd  bear  for  Him  the  thorny  crown, 

If  I  with  thee  could  meet. 
Then  if  you  hear  my  call  to-night, 

Ask  in  our  Father's  name, 
That  He  may  give  thee  strength  aright, 

To  visit  earth  again. 

Then  come  and  throw  thy  influence  round, 

And  with  that  power  divine 
Enfold  within  thy  spirit  arms 

This  weary  soul  of  mine ; 
I  would  not  be  an  erring  child, 

If  I  could  know  the  way, 
But  to  the  right  my  stubborn  heart 

Should  meekly  bow  to-day. 

Then  come  to  me,  oh  angel  one, 

Baptize  me  with  thy  love, 
And  lead  me  through  these  thorny  paths 

To  brighter  fields  above. 


THE  LITTLE  STREAM.  77 


THE    LITTLE    STREAM. 

I  found  a  little  stream  to-day,  the  merriest  thing  alive, 
That  danced  and  prattled  on  its  way,  like  a  little  child  of 

five ; 
And  o'er  the  rocks  and  silent  ferns  in  one  melodious 

strain, 
It  scattered  drops  of  pearly  dew,  like  gentle  showers  of 

rain ; 

As  Nature's  pets  are  always  hid  in  shades  of  solitude, 
So  was  this  little  stream  I  found  while  travelling  in  the 

wood. 

For  many  a  week  the  northern  blast  had  piped  both  loud 

and  shrill, 
And  many  were  the  crystal  wreaths  that  crowned  the 

wood  and  hill ; 
And  yet  the  stream  kept  on  its  way,  in  laughter  and  in 

song, 
As  careless  as  in  Summer-time,  when  sunny  days  are 

long; 

It  did  not  sing  a  plaintive  note,  so  merry  was  its  mood — 
That  little  stream  I  found  to-day,  while  walking  in  the 

wood. 

Within  this  little  mirror  wild,  were  pebbles  black  as  jet, 
And  on  its  bank  were  mosses  green,  all  tremulous  and 

wet; 
?Twas  long,  long  since  a  southern  breeze  had  fanned  its 

smiling  face, 

And  not  a  ray  of  sunlight,  so  dreary  was  the  place, 
7* 


78  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

And  yet  it  sang  a  cheerful  song,  where  the  tall  cedars 

stood, 
That  little  stream  I  found  to-day  while  walking  in  the 

wood. 

What  kept  this  little  stream  so  long  from  icy  fetters  free  ? 
Had  not  Jack  Frost  sufficient  time  to  twine  a  wreath  for 

thee? 
Or  was  it  that  the  Fairy's  court  had  thrown  a  magic 

round, 
That  they  might  dip  their  silver  cups  and  list  its  cheerful 

sound ; 
Oh,  no ;  there  was  a  fountain  pure  that  had  the  blast 

withstood, 
That  fed  this  little  stream  I  found  while  walking  in  the 

wood. 

I  mused  upon  this  little  stream,  so  clear  and  light  it  ran, 
And  wondered  if  the  stream  of  thought  within  the  heart 

of  man, 
Was  ever  known  to  be  congealed  and  coated  o'er  with 

snow, 
When  pure  and  bright  the  fountain  was  from  whence  the 

stream  did  flow  ? 
Then  may  we  feed  our  streams  of  thought  with  that 

most  pure  and  good — 
And  learn  a  lesson  from  the  stream,  that  wandered  in  the 

wood. 

But  I  will  leave  my  little  pet  with  yellow  leaves  to  play, 
And  may  it  cheer  the  hearts  of  all  it  meets  upon  its  way ; 
Then  listen  to  its  wildwood  song ;  it  hath  a  power  divine, 
I  would  that  I  could  melt  men's  hearts  as  it  has  melted 

mine, 
And  teach  them  ever  more  to  sing  through  life's  long 

solitude, 
The  merry  song  I  learned  to-day,  while  walking  in  the 

wood. 


THERMOMETER   101.  79 


THERMOMETER  101. 

Goody  gracious  !     "  What  hot  weather ! " 
We  shall  melt  and  run  together, — 
Oldest  people  say  they  never, 

Never  saw  the  like  before  ! 
Hot,  and  hotter  still  'tis  growing ; 
Mercury  up  to  overflowing — 
Not  a  breath  of  air  is  blowing 

Through  the  blinds  or  in  the  door ! 

What  a  stir  among  the  ladies, 

Saints  and  sinners,  maids  and  babies ; 

How  the  emigration  rages 

For  Saratoga  and  the  Falls  ! 
On  they  move,  the  "  Hotel  guestes'  " 
Trunks  packed  down  like  modern  presses ; 
Roller-skates  and  bathing-dresses, 

Newport  hats  and  travelling  shawls  ! 

Mark  your  baggage — take  your  check, 
All  is  safe  except  your  neck, 
Providence  will  that  protect, 

As  credit  due  the  corporation ; 
Now  for  comfort,  what  can  hinder  ? 
Close  the  blinds  and  raise  the  winder, 
Never  mind  the  dust  and  cinder — 

We  shall  soon  be  at  the  "  station  "  ! 


80  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

Baggage  masters  pulling,  hauling, 
Nurses  running,  children  squalling — 
Cab  and  hackman  loudly  calling, 

"  Carriage  !  Carriage  ! "  quick  and  tell  'm- 
"Make  room  yonder,  if  you  please," 
Never  mind  a  little  squeeze ; 
Comfort,  luxury  and  ease 

Await  us  all  at  "Hotel  Pelham." 

"The  trunks  unpacked?"  then  hasten  in, 
For  when  the  rich  displays  begin, 
'Tis  always  sure  to  raise  the  wind 

Among  the  "TONS"  in  fashion's  school. 
Clouds  of  envy,  great  and  small, 
Are  gathering  around  the  hall ; 
The  mercury,  too,  begins  to  fall — 

How  great  the  cost  to  keep  one  cool ! 

Can  you  tell  me,  cousin  Job, 
Of  those  people  a  la  mode  ? 
Think  I  saw  them  on  the  road — 

"  Yes,  but  we  must  whisper  low, 
'Tis  Mr.  Bird,  his  wife  and  daughter — 
Have  lived  a  year  on  bread  and  water, 
That  they  might  come  and  '  board  a  quarter,' 

To  '  recruit  their  health '  you  know. " 

Thus  we  live — and  thus  we  find 
That  half  the  world  of  human  kind, 
Starve  the  body,  soul  and  mind, 

To  gratify  some  foolish  passion ; 
Wasting  years  that  they  may  gain 
A  pompous  crown,  an  empty  name  ; 
They  reach  the  goal — but  not  the  fame, 

Then  die  a  slave  to  pride  and  fashion. 

Alas !  that  we  should  scheme  and  plot, 
To  seem  and  be  what  we  are  not ; 


THERMOMETER   101.  81 

Thus  make  ourselves  a  worthless  blot 

Upon  the  page  of  time's  great  journal. 

For  life,  at  best,  is  but  a  span, 

Yet  would  a  blessing  prove  to  man, 

If  he  would  but  his  powers  expand, 
And  reap  rewards  in  life  eternal. 


82  POEMS    AND    LETTERS. 

, 


J 


CHARLEY  OAKES  AND  KITTY  LEE. 

Near  a  mill  where  two  ways  meet, 
Trod  hard  by  little  children's  feet, 
Where  honeysuckles  form  a  line 
Of  flowers  through  all  the  summer  time, 
Two  children  played  beneath  a  tree — 
Charley  Oakes  and  Kitty  Lee. 

They  were  playing  where  a  stream 
Ran  away  with  youth's  young  dream, 
As  they  whiled  away  the  hours 
Twining  wreaths  of  leaves  and  flowers  ; 
Counting  neither  time  nor  pence — 
Both  had  hearts  of  innocence  ; 
They  were  little  children  then, 
Kitty  eight,  and  Charley  ten. 

See  them  taking  hold  of  hands, 
Measuring  foot-prints  in  the  sands : 
Kitty's  white  like  flakes  of  snow, 
Charley's  longest — 'most  a  toe ; 
"  So,  Kitty,  I  must  go  ahead," 
"  And  I  will  follow  you,"  she  said ; 
"  And  when  a  little  taller,  see  ! 
Then  you  can  walk  beside  of  me  " — 
Kitty  she  was  three  feet,  four, 
Charley  Oakes  a  trifle  more. 


CHARLEY   OAKES   AND   KITTY   LEE.  83 

"  Let  me  help  you  o'er  the  brook ; 
See  us  walking,  Kitty,  look ! " 
"  Them  are  shadows,  Charley  Oakes, 
Shadows  ain't  the  real  folks ; 
That's  what  mother  calls  ideal, 
You  and  me  are  what  is  real ! " 
Children  say  some  wiser  things, 
Oftentimes  than  men  or  Kings. 

Twenty  years  have  come  and  flown ; 
Kitty's  foot  has  longer  grown — 
And  often  at  the  twilight  hours, 
Where  once  the  children  gathered  flowers, 
Two  lovers  meet  where  once  they  played : 
A  brawny  youth  and  dark-eyed  maid — 
"  You  are  tall  enough  to  walk  with  me," 
Said  Charley  Oakes  to  Kitty  Lee  ! 

The  brook  is  running  just  as  still, 
Turning  the  wheels  of  Jacob's  mill ; 
And  on  its  bank,  half  hid  from  view, 
Stands  a  cottage,  nearly  new ; 
Busy  hands  are  working  there — 
Hearts  made  strong  by  toil  and  care, 
Aided  by  the  spade  and  plough — 
Kitty  drives  for  Charley  now  ! 

Close  beside  the  door  are  seen, 
Playing  on  the  grass  so  green, 
Little  shadows  now  more  real — 
Kitty  thinks  them  not  ideal ; 
And  she  calls  them  real  folks, 
Little  Charles  and  Kitty  Oakes ! 


POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 


NATURAL    AND    HAPPY. 

I  am  Nature's  own  child — I  am  wild  and  romantic, 
I  love  the  green  fields  and  the  shady  old  wood ; 

And  the  songs  of  the  streamlets — oh,  they  drive  me 

most  frantic, 
As  they  dance  o'er  the  pebbles  in  frolicsome  mood ! 

There's  the  old  rustic  bridge  that  was  built  by  our  fathers, 
And  the  wall  by  the  cow-path,  so  mossy  and  old, 

Is  more  dear  to  my  heart  than  a  bag  full  of  dollars ; 
Than  the  rustling  of  silks,  or  the  shining  of  gold ; 

And  oft  when  my  hopes  in  the  future  do  falter, 
And  visions  of  darkness  have  shrouded  the  mind ; 

With  a  mossy  old  stump  in  the  woods  for  an  altar, 
Have  I  prayed  that  my  heart  be  kept  gentle  and  kind. 

Let  those  who  delight  heaps  of  gold  to  be  piling, 
Pile  on,  if  they  choose,  till  it  reaches  the  blue ; 

But  be  sure  that  when  death  sends  his  arrows  a  flying, 
That  a  balance  of  credit  has  been  given  to  you  ! 

I  know  it  is  thought  when  the  beard  has  grown  stronger, 
And  a  row  of  dark  whiskers  has  mantled  the  face, 

That  we  should  be  childlike  and  gentle  no  longer, 
And  to  "become  like  a  child"  is  almost  a  disgrace  ! 


NATURAL  AND   HAPPY.  85 

Just  let  a  man  live  in  accordance  with  Nature, 
Appear  as  God  made  him,  and  use  common  sense, 

He  would  soon  take  a  trip  out  to  Taunton  or  Worcester, 
Where  his  board  would  be  paid  as  a  public  expense  ! 

I  know  that  my  friends  are  oft  shocked  at  my  capers, 
And  wish  I  would  learn  to  behave  like  a  man ; 

Wear  fashionable  airs  in  preference  to  Nature's — 
And  I'd  like  much  to  please  them,  but  'tis  more  than  I 
can. 

They  may  laugh  at  my  notions,  and  say  that  I'm  odd, 
But  I  care  not  a  whit  for  the  laugh  or  the  sneer ; 

If  I'm  true  to  my  nature,  and  true  to  my  God, 
'Twill  be  well  with  me  always,  with  nothing  to  fear. 
8 


86  JfOEMS  AND  LETTgKS. 


DIED, 

At  the  Union  Hospital,  in  Memphis,  Tenn.,  August  31,  1863,  WILLIAM 
SOVLE,  of  Duxbury,  Mass,,  aged  44  years ;  a  member  of  Co.  O,  38th  Keg' 
Mass.  Vols. 

[  "Written  by  request.] 

Dead !  and  buried  a  two  months !  oh,  it  cannot  be  true — 
My  husband,  my  William !  no  it  cannot  be  him  ! 

He  has  had  his  discharge — for  he  wrote  me  the  news — 
I  am  expecting  him  home  every  day  on  the  train ! 

He  said  he  must  go,  for  his  country  was  calling — 

And  should  men  she  protected  think  to  shrink  from 

the  cause 
When  the  Stars  and  the  Stripes  of  the  Nation  were 

falling? 
So  he  buckled  his  belt  and  went  off  to  the  wars. 

He  left  me  alone  with  my  two  little  children, 
But  I  tried  to  bear  up  'neath  my  heart-breaking  load ; 

And  I  kept  back  the  tears  that  my  eyes  would  be  filling, 
Till  I  saw  him  go  round  a  turn  in  the  road. 

And  I  thought  to  be  calm,  and  bow  in  submission, 
For  I  knew  there  were  other  homes  lonely  like  mine ; 

And  I  prayed  that  my  father  would  grant  him  permission 
Once  more  to  return  to  those  waiting  behind. 

But  he  sent  me  a  letter — he  had  sickness  already, 
For  his  health  with  the  climate  would  never  agree ; 

And  I  saw  by  the  lines  that  his  hand  was  unsteady, 
When  he  spoke  of  his  home,  of  the  children  and  me. 


DIED. 


87 


Then  he  said  he  was  coming,  once  more  should  I  meet 
him, 

So  I  kept  back  the  tear-drops  welling  up  in  my  eye ; 
While  the  autumn  was  fading  I  waited  to  greet  him, 

But,  alas  !  they  had  left  him  among  strangers  to  die. 

No  mother  to  bless  him, 

No  wife  to  caress  him, 
And  lighten  the  clouds  on  that  dark,  dreary  day ; 

Not  even  a  token 

For  the  hearts  they  have  broken, 
Is  returned  for  the  life  they  have  taken  away. 

When  they  raise  their  glad  voices, 

And  the  Nation  rejoices, 
As  the  stars  and  the  stripes  in  the  heavens  are  spread ; 

Do  they  think  of  the  others, 

Wives,  children  and  mothers, 
Who  have  nothing  to  cheer  them,— not  even  their  dead ! 


88  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


LETTER  NUMBER  THREE. 

March  4th.  —  "We  shall  have  a  wild,  stormy  night," 
said  father,  as  he  came  in  with  the  maple  back-log  in  his 
arms.  The  dark,  heavy-laden  clouds  had  been  gather- 
ing in  the  sky  for  some  hours,  and  already  the  grand  old 
harper  of  Nature  had  commenced  striking  the  key-note 
to  the  dying  requiem  of  Winter ;  now  shrieking,  like  a 
mad  lunatic,  down  through  the  naked  branches  of  the 
birches,  like  Jeremiah  of  old,  pouring  forth  its  deep 
lamentations  through  the  sombre  aisles  of  the  green- 
wood ;  now  lying  low  and  whispering  gently  to  the  dry 
autumn  leaves  that  are  trying  to  catch  a  little  nap  under 
the  hedges  by  the  wayside. 

So  we  closed  the  blinds  to  the  sitting-room  windows, 
put  some  potatoes  in  the  ashes  to  roast,  lit  the  kerosene, 
and  gathered  ourselves  around  the  little  mahogany  table 
that  was  to  be  the  centre  of  our  evening's  entertainment. 
Here  is  my  writing-desk,  with  its  scraps  of  paper  and 
pencils ;  a  vase  of  heliotrope  and  geranium  flowers 
stand  near,  filling  the  room  with  their  sweet  fragrance, 
while  a  little  music-box  is  playing  its  sweet  German  airs 
on  the  what-not. 

It  is  true  there  will  be  no  evening  papers  to  read ;  but 
as  we  have  no  ships  coming  in,  no  stocks  or  dividends  to 
rise  or  fall,  we  think  to  make  ourselves  very  happy  with- 
out it.  So  taking  a  little  case  of  miniatures  from  the 
table  drawer,  I  have  busied  myself  in  looking  at  the 
different  expressions  of  character,  and  contrasting  their 


LETTER   NUMBER   THREE.  89 

various  forms  of  beauty,  until  I  came  to  the  sweet  child- 
face  of  my  little  angel  sister,  who,  when  the  September 
month  was  making  out  her  programme  for  the  Autumn, 
and  looping  up  her  golden  robes  for  the  harvest-time, 
left  us  weeping  under  the  great  cloud  of  sorrow,  and 
went  up  to  live  with  "  Our  Father  which  art  in  Heavan." 

Then  there  was  the  plain  but  honest  face  of  my  old 
grandmother,  with  her  blind  eye.  How  natural !  I 
could  look  no  longer,  for  the  teai-s  were  coming ;  so  I 
shut  my  eyes,  while  my  thoughts  ran  down  the  little 
stairway  into  my  heart-chamber  where  her  memory  lives, 
and  I  thought  of  the  time  when,  years  ago,  we  closed 
the  coffin-lid  over  her  tired,  wearied  form,  and  laid  it 
away  to  rest  under  the  snow-wreaths  in  the  church-yard. 
Dear  old  Grandmother !  She  is  in  Heaven  now,  for  her 
treasures  were  those  that  help  form  the  golden  bridge 
whereon  we  are  to  cross  the  dark  river  to  our  mansions 
not  made  with  hands,  in  the  spirit  realms  beyond.  But 
I  often  feel  her  gentle  presence  as  it  comes  wafted  on 
the  celestial  breezes,  lighting  up  the  dark  way-paths  of 
life,  and  helping  me  to  shun  all  things  that  make  the 
soul  grow  poor. 

Reader,  have  you  not  an  aged  grandmother  or  a  blue- 
eyed  sister  looking  over  the  pearly  battlements  of  the 
star-chambers  ?  And  would  it  not  shorten  the  way  and 
make  it  more  pleasant  could  you  realize  those  heaven- 
born  truths  of  spirit  communion,  and  dwell  in  the  sweet 
atmosphere  of  the  angel  love  ? 

Then  come  out  from  your  prison-house  of  bondage, 
for  is  not  the  life  more  than  meat,  and  the  body  than 
raiment  ?  And  instead  of  toiling  early  and  late  over  real 
estate  and  bank  stocks,  and  wearing  out  your  life  in  the 
great  show-rooms  of  Mammon,  go  out  into  the  sanctuary 
of  Nature,  and  there  read  from  her  mossy  tablets  those 
eternal  truths  penciled  by  the  never-erring  fingers  of 
Deity,  and  drink  into  your  thirsty  souls  living  inspiration 
8* 


90  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

as  it  flows  clown  fresh  from  the  never  sealed  fountains  of 
the  New  Jerusalem.  Then  shall  the  angels  descend  and 
lay  upon  thy  heart's  altar  the  white  flowers  of  peace  and 
love,  and  thy  soul  shall  be  clothed  in  the  garments  of 
truth,  whose  spotless  array  shall  make  thee  free  and 
happy. 

March  Qth. — I  had  long  ago  promised  myself  this  visit, 
but  as  my  rustic  baskets  must  be  finished  for  the  New 
York  fair,  it  could  not  be  made  until  the  last  nail  had 
been  driven  in  the  packing-boxes,  and  they  had  been 
labelled  and  stamped  as  the  law  directs.  I  then  dressed 
myself  in  hat  and  shawl,  and  turned  my  steps  toward 
Happy  Valley,  the  home  of  Aunt  Linda. 

The  morning,  after  shaking  hands  with  a  dark  and 
stormy  night,  came  up  from  the  depths  of  old  ocean, 
with  her  robes  decked  with  the  frost  jewels  sparkling  in 
the  glad  sunshine.  Was  there  ever  mortal  more  happy 
than  I  on  this  bright,  frosty  morning  ?  now  climbing  the 
old  zigzag  wall,  or  sitting  down  under  its  brow  to  look 
at  the  pretty  mosses  growing  on  its  rough,  gray  stones — 
blessed  texts,  that  have  preached  to  me  so  many  lessons 
of  truth  and  wisdom ;  now  tripping  over  the  fields  gath- 
ering boquets  of  crystalline  grasses ;  now  sliding  across 
the  glaring  ice  ponds,  and  picking  the  frozen  cranberries 
from  the  crisp  meadow  vines. 

But  as  all  our  earth  journeys  must  come  to  an  end,  I 
soon  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  smoke  curling  up 
among  the  trees  from  the  broad  chimney-top,  and  the 
old  iron  padlock  hanging  loose  upon  the  door  as  I  lifted 
the  great  wooden  latch  and  entered  the  low  porch  of 
Aunt  Linda's  dwelling.  It  is  a  simple  illustration  of 
country  life,  nestled  down  on  a  bright  spot  of  sunshine 
in  the  heart  of  a  great  woods,  where  the  frogs  serenade 
the  moon  and  stars  through  the  warm  spring  nights,  and 
the  birds  haunt  the  vales  in  the  summer  time.  An  oak 
spreads  its  giant  arms  and  keeps  guard  over  the  little 


LETTER    NUMBER  THREE.  91 

gateway,  and  wild  elders,  entwined  with  raspberry 
bushes,  form  a  hedge  by  the  roadside — for  Aunt  Linda 
lets  Nature  have  pretty  much  her  own  way,  and  the 
result  is,  she  has  many  more  attractions  than  rich  neigh- 
bors, who  live  in  large,  painted  houses,  and  train  yellow 
trumpet-flowers  on  checker-board  trellises. 

Would  you  like  to  see  this  little  home,  LUTHER  ?  Then 
let  me  jog  your  memory,  for  methinks  you  have  seen 
many  an  one  standing  near  the  bend  of  a  road  in  the  old 
country  woods,  when  you  used  to  take  that  little  willow 
basket  on  your  arm  and  go  blue-berrying  away  down  in 
the  golden  fields  of  childhood. 

Sitting  down  by  the  seven-by-nine  window  that  had 
let  in  the  sunshine  for  nearly  a  century,  looking  at  the 
dried  holly  leaves  over  the  walnut-frame  looking-glass, 
I  thought  of  the  old  loom  and  the  warping-bars  up  in  the 
garret — the  little  wheel  and  the  cradle — the  old  red 
cradle  that  Gean  and  Esther  dreamed  away  their  baby- 
hood in,  to  the  tune  of  "Hush,  my  dear,  lie  still  and 
slumber."  while  Aunt  Linda  drew  out  the  long,  silky 
threads  from  the  maple  distaff. 

Supper  being  ready,  we  sat  down  to  the  low  Pembroke 
table,  neatly  spread  with  its  snowy  cloth.  There  were 
the  white  plates  with  the  green  edges — the  blue-and- 
white  cups  and  saucers— and  sucli  a  cup  of  tea! — gentle 
reader,  Aunt  Linda  was  made  in  those  days  when  nerves 
were  not  fashionable.  Then  the  warm  cakes,  the  nice 
yellow  butter,  the  pitcher  of  quince  preserves  that  had 
been  brought  out  from  its  hiding-place  in  the  little  closet 
under  the  stairway,  and,  lastly,  the  apple  pie  !  Oh,  ye 
savans  of  city  life,  who  indulge  in  corporation  dinners 
and  Beacon  street  parties,  better  exchange  plates — take 
a  trip  down  in  the  old  country  woods,  and  drink  tea  with 
Aunt  Linda  and  the  angels ;  for  she  often  feels  the 
presence  of  those  unseen  visitors  from  the  Better  Land, 
and  looks  forward  with  pleasure  to  the  day  when  she, 
too,  shall  become  one  of  their  number. 


92  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

Being  naturally  possessed  with  a  knowledge  of  the 
medicinal  properties  of  roots  and  herbs,  she  is  constantly 
sought  for  to  administer  her  cordials  to  the  sick  and 
suffering,  and  to  speak  words  of  hope  and  consolation  to 
the  departing.  Many  are  the  freed  spirits  she  has  fol- 
lowed down  to  the  shore  of  the  great  Blue  River,  and 
Aunt  Linda  will  soon  go  over  to  meet  them;  for  the 
threads  are  fast  breaking  in  her  life-loom,  but  countless 
jewels,  strung  upon  the  golden  cords  of  love  and 
sympathy,  will  she  find  laid  up  where  "moth  and  rust 
doth  not  corrupt,"  when  the  seal  of  the  great  Earth  Book 
is  broken. 


THE    MAY-DAT   WALK.  93- 


THE    MAY-DAY    WALK. 

Come,  children,  put  your  bonnets  on, 

Your  bonnets  made  of  gingham, 
And  get  your  baskets  from  the  loft, 

Mind,  don't  forget  to  bring  'um — 
Among  the  dry,  autumnal  leaves, 

The  winds  of  May  are  playing ; 
So,  children,  put  your  bonnets  on, 

And  let  us  go  a  Maying ! 

The  snow-white  caps  and  icy  frills 

Have  left  old  Bassett's  mountain ; 
And  Spring  has  broke  the  frosty  bands 

Of  eveiy  rill  and  fountain ; 
On  every  tree  in  Thatchwood  Grove 

The  summer  birds  are  singing, 
And  all  along  by  Ripple  Brook 

The  meadow  grass  is  springing. 

We'll  trace  the  stream  by  David's  mill 

Beneath  the  oaks  and  birches, 
That  nod  through  all  the  summer  time 

To  little  trout  and  perches ; 
Then  cross  the  cedar  bridge  below, 

And  take  the  old  cart- way, 
For  that  is  edged  with  flowers,  you  know 

Through  all  the  month  of  May. 


94  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

I  always  loved  this  rural  walk 

From  early  childhood  hours, 
For  here  I  learned  to  worship  God 

With  little  birds  and  flowers ; 
And  in  each  dell  and  shady  grot, 

From  dewy  morn  till  even, 
I  talked  with  angel  visitants 

And  learned  the  way  to  Heaven ! 

Then,  children,  leave  your  books  and  play, 

And  come  with  me  awhile  ; 
I'm  going  to  throw  the  man  away, 

And  be  again  a  child ; 
For  I  don't  like  the  ways  of  men, 

With  all  their  forms  and  graces. 
Give  me  the  natural  truth  that  speaks 

From  little  children's  faces ! 

I  will  not  bow  to  Fashion's  shrine, 

Nor  list  to  her  applause, — 
I'd  rather  read  from  Nature's  books, 

And  study  Nature's  laws ; 
Then  let  us  take  the  gift  she  brings 

From  our  good  Father's  hand, 
Where  children  love  and  flowers  bloom, 

Up  in  the  Better  Land ! 

We'll  polish  'mid  the  rural  scenes, 

That  God  to  us  has  given, 
And  breathe  the  pure,  untainted  air 

Fresh  from  the  upper  Heaven ; 
And  strive  through  all  the  walks  of  life, 

Love's  labor  to  increase, — 
Such  ways  are  "  ways  of  pleasantness," 

And  all  such  "paths  are  peace  !  " 

But,  children,  we  must  hasten  home, 
The  woods  are  dim  before  us  ; 


THE    MAY-DAY   WALK.  95 

The  dampness  of  the  twilight  hours 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 
See,  now,  in  yonder  miller's  cot 

The  lights  begin  to  glisten ; 
Then  let  us  go  and  tell  our  tales 

Where  mother's  ears  can  listen ! 


96  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


DIED   RICH. 

Died  rich,  and  left  a  fortune, 

Two  hundred  thousand  in  all ! 
They  said  it  in  car  and  on  steamboat, 

They  said  it  in  parlor  and  hall } 
One  hundred  thousand  in  bank  stocks, 

Fifty  in  silver  and  gold ; 
Fifty  more  in  real  estate — 

Two  hundred  thousand  all  told ! 

They  laid  him  in  thibet  and  velvet, 

With  a  pillow  of  down  for  his  head ; 
And  smoothed  his  gray  locks  with  ointment, 

For  old  Dean  Williams  was  dead. 
They  made  him  a  coffin  of  rosewood, 

And  lined  it  with  satin  and  fringe ; 
Ornamented  it  with  silver 

Handles,  tablet  and  hinge. 

They  raised  the  purest  marble 

Above  his  honorable  breast ; 
And  said  Dean  Williams  was  quietly 

Taking  his  final  rest. 
But  while  they  were  counting  his  treasures, 

Dividing  his  silver  and  gold, 
The  angel  was  calling  Dean  Williams, 

To  give  an  account  of  his  soul ! 


DIED   RICH.  97 

For  a  joy  in  Heaven  awaiteth 

The  doers  of  good  below ; 
And  a  harvest  remains  to  be  gathered 

For  every  seed  we  sow. 
So  the  angel  said  to  Dean  Williams, 

"  Come  forward  and  render  to  me 
An  account  of  thy  doings  in  earth-life, 

Between  thy  brothers  and  thee  !  " 

With  fear  and  with  trembling  he  answered, 
"  I  have  lived  to  the  age  of  three-score, 

And  died  a  rich  man  with  a  fortune 
Of  two  hundred  thousand  or  more." 

Then  the  angel  said,  "  Oh,  mortal, 

'Tis  not  of  this  I  would  know ; 
But  thy  works  of  love  and  goodness, 

That  on  earth  you  was  wont  to  bestow. 
Have  you  brought  no  deeds  of  charity, 

To  lighten  your  pathway  here  ? 
No  plea  for  suffering  humanity, 

To  brighten  thy  spirit  sphere  ? 

Tell  of  the  widowed  mothers 

That  burned  the  midnight  oil, 
Until  thy  ready  heart  and  hand 

Lessened  the  hours  of  toil. 
Tell  of  the  orphan  children, 

That  smilingly  passed  your  doors, 
Made  warm  by  the  furs  and  woolens, 

From  your  abundant  stores. 

Tell  me  of  the  poor  mechanics 

That  blessed  thy  kindly  hand ; 
Tell  me  the  deeds  of  glory 

Thou  hast  done  for  thy  native  land. 
Tell  me  of  the  errors  thou  hast  crushed, 
9 


98  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

Of  the  truths  thou  taught  to  grow ; 
Tell  all  thou  hast  done  for  thy  Father  God, 
In  His  vineyard  down  below  !  " 

With  fear  and  with  trembling  he  answered, 
"  I  have  lived  to  the  age  of  three-score ; 

And  died  a  rich  man,  with  a  fortune 
Of  two  hundred  thousand  or  more." 

The  angel  then  took  up  the  record, 

And  read  it  calmly  and  slow ; 
"  I  find  you  not  among  the  names 

That  doeth  good  below  ! 
You  have  failed  to  do  your  duty, 

You  have  been  to  earth  a  clog, 
By  worshiping  its  senseless  dross, 

And  not  the  living  God ! 

Your  heart  is  where  your  treasures  are, 

Your  Heaven  you  will  find 
Among  the  souls  that  lived  for  self, 

And  not  for  human  kind !  " 
The  angel  plumed  his  starry  wings 

And  soared  among  the  blest — 
Dean  Williams  saw  his  sad  mistake, 

His  spirit  was  distressed ! 


NOTES  FROM  THATCH  WOOD  COTTAGE.  99 


NOTES  FROM  THATCHWOOD  COTTAGE. 

Dear  reader,  did  you  ever  feel  sad  because  the  world 
with  its  great  noisy  heart  could  not  understand  you,  and 
long  to  give  back  to  Mother  Nature  this  tired  body,  and 
climb  up  the  spiral  stairway  to  the  star-chambers  above, 
and  find  some  good  sympathizing  angel  that  would  let 
you  put  your  arms  around  her  neck  and  weep  away  your 
sadness  ?  If  so,  then  you  know  how  to  pity  me,  and  I 
shall  come  to  you  whenever  my  soul  reaches  out  for  that 
love  and  sympathy  which  is  so  painful  if  unsupplied. 
This  is  the  anniversary  of  my  birth-morn,  and  as  I  look 
from  my  window  and  see  the  green  grass  that  has  been 
sleeping  under  the  snow,  it  leads  me  forward  to  the  May- 
time,  when  all  will  be  glad  and  beautiful  again.  Then  I 
run  down  the  little  magnetic  stairway  into  my  heart- 
chamber,  and  think  of  the  May-time  in  my  childhood, 
when  all  was  green  and  glad  there,  and  the  white  daisy 
bloomed  in  all  its  purity ;  and  I  think :  Will  the  grass 
ever  look  green  there  again ;  and  the  daisies,  will  they 
ever  bloom  as  lily-like  as  they  did  then  ?  Ah,  yes  they 
will,  and  Nature  echoes  the  response, — "They  will!" 
Good  old  Mother  Nature,  how  I  love  her !  She  it  was 
who  introduced  me  to  this  life ;  she  fed  me  with  milk 
when  a  babe,  and  when  my  eyes  became  strong  and  my 
ears  keen  enough  to  hear  her  whisperings,  she  bade  me 
look  around,  and  told  me  that  all  were  my  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  that  I  should  love  them  as  such.  She 


100  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

cradled  me  in  her  mossy  blankets  and  spread  down  her 
green  grassy  carpets  for  me  to  dance  upon ;  and  when 
my  brow  was  tired  and  feverish,  and  my  soul  was  weary 
and  sad,  she  bathed  me  with  her  dew-drops,  and  sang 
me  into  harmony  again  with  her  song-birds  and  stream- 
lets. Then  why  should  I  distrust  her  now?  Calvin 
seems  to  tell  me  that  I  am  in  a  state  of  nature,  and  that  I 
can  do  no  good  thing.  But  nay ;  would  that  I  were  in  a 
state  of  nature,  as  that  state  is  known  to  me,  for  then  I 
should  be  just  what  my  good  Father  would  have  me  be. 
But  I  am  not,  for  I  have  wandered  far  from  her  teach- 
ings, and  have  broken  many  of  her  laws,  and  my  object 
in  living  now  is  to  make  restitution  by  conforming  more 
strictly  to  her  commands,  and  to  become  once  more  the 
simple,  true-hearted  child  she  would  have  me  be.  Not 
that  I  would  be  simply  a  child,  and  nothing  more  ;  but  I 
would  have  that  frankness  and  simplicity  of  the  child, 
blended  with  the  sterner  realities  of  manhood.  Then, 
my  dear  brothers  and  sisters,  help  me  along :  send  your 
petitions  up  on  the  wings  of  thought  to  our  God-Father, 
and  for  your  cheering  words  I  will  thank  you  by  striv- 
ing to  live  more  truthfully,  and  the  good  angels  will 
smile  lovingly  down  upon  you  for  having  done  to  others 
as  you  would  wish  others  to  do  to  you. 


THE  YOUNG  VOLUNTEER.  101 


THE    YOUNG    VOLUNTEER. 

A  plain-looking  box,  and  it  came  by  "  Express," 
In  the  afternoon  train  going  down  to  the  East ; 

And  a  great  throb  of  sorrow  welled  up  in  my  breast, 
When  I  read — "  The  remains  of  a  soldier  deceased." 

And  I  sat  me  right  down  'neath  a  tree  that  stood,  by, 
To  think  of  the  hopes  that  lay  slumbering  there ; 

Then  brushing  a  tear  that  was  dimming  my  eye, 
I  gave  myself  up  to  a  gloomy  despair. 

And  I  thought  of  the  time  when  the  country  was  calling 
For  men  that  were  strong,  with  hearts  that  were  true, 

To  scatter  the  clouds  that  around  us  were  falling, 
And  to  set  the  stars  firmly  again  in  the  blue. 

I  remembered  the  morn  when  they  met  at  the  station, 
When  the  sun  streaked  the  sky  with  its  braidings  of 
gold; 

How  the  many  hearts  beat  with  a  great  palpitation, 
As  the  angel  of  love  touched  the  chords  of  the  soul ! 

I  saw  the  brave  boy  in  the  thick  of  the  crowd, 

With  his  blouse  and  his  blues,  with  his   bright   studs 

and  bars ; 
I  heard  his  strong  voice,  as  they  shouted  aloud, 

"Three   cheers  for  the   Union — the   Stripes  and   the 
Stars !  " 

9* 


102  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

The  sisters  were  there  and  shook    hands    with  their 
brother — 

The  father  looked  on  with  a  feeling  of  pride ; 
Then  leaving  a  kiss  on  the  cheek  of  his  mother, 

He  went  to  the  war,  with  a  gun  by  his  side  ! 

My  thoughts  followed  on  in  their  proud,  gallant  march, 
Through  fields  that  were  strewn  with  the  dead  and  the 

dying; 
Through  swamps  that  were  thick  with  the  cypress   and 

larch, 

Where  the  fire-balls  of  death  through  the  red  light 
were  flying ! 

But  he  passed  through  them  all,  and  his  spirit  grew 

stronger, 
Though  his  cheek  had  grown  pale   and  his  eye  had 

grown  dim ; 
God    had    sent    his  promotion  —  he  was  "private"  no 

.longer, 
For  the  angel  had  come  his  commission  to  bring ! 

The  mail,  and  the  letters, — oh,  sad  was  the  hour — 
It  was  not  his  hand-writing  they  knew  at  a  glance ; 

They  read — they  tremble — they  wilt  like  a  flower — 
Oh,  Father,  we  pray  Thee  their  spirits  enhance. 

He  left  us  to  serve  in  the  battles  for  Truth, 
He  has  fallen  at  last  with  the  gallant  and  brave ; 

They  have  brought  him  again  to  the  home  of  his  youth, 
And  where  he   once  played  they  have  made  him  a 
grave. 


FRANK  AND  LITTLE  JIM.  103 


FRANK    AND    LITTLE    JLM. 

'Twas  in  the  early  Autumn-time,  the  birds  had  gone 

away, 
The  leaves  upon  the  maple  boughs  were  turning  red  and 

gray; 
The  flowers  that  bloomed  beside  the  walks  began  to 

droop  and  fade, 
Great  patches  of  the   sunlight  shone  where  once  the 

shadows  played. 

I  sat  me  down  by  mother's  door  to  muse  upon  the  scene, 
To  think  how  soon  the  Autumn  frost  had  changed  the 

summer  green ; 

For  every  time  a  zephyr  came,  away  the  leaflets  flew, 
Till  on  the  elm  the  robin's  nest  was  left  to  public  view. 

A  little  child  four  years  of  age,  with  features  fresh  and 
fair, 

With  sunlight  dancing  in  his  eyes  and  through  his  golden 
hair, 

Came  running  from  a  woodland  path  where  oft  he  went 
to  play, 

And  spent  his  hours  among  the  flowers  on  many  a  sum- 
mer day. 

"  Mother,  I've  had  the  sweetest  time  while  playing 'neath 

the  trees, 
And  once.  I  heard  a  little   song,  and  thought  it  was  the 

leaves ; 


104  POEMS    AND    LETTERS. 

And  looking  up  to  hear  them  sing,  oh,  mother !  there  I 

see 
Our  little  darling  angel,  Jim,  sat  looking  down  at  me  ! 

And  oh,  he  had  the   sweetest  face,  and  such  a  winning 

way, 
I  asked  him  to  come  down  awhile  and  help  me  in  my 

Play; 
And  then  I  took  the  chance,  you  know,  to  ask  him  of  his 

home, 
And  if  he  ran  away  from  God,  and  did  he  come  alone  ! 

And  then  he  told  me  all  about  his  home  so  bright  and 

fair, 
Of  all  the  little  boys  and  girls  that  loved  each  other 

there, 
And  how  'they  sang  the  sweetest  songs  of  purity  and 

love, 
And  wanted  me  to  go   with  him  and  live  with  them 

above ! 

And,  mother,  could  you  see  his  hair,  all  curled  with 

flowers  so  dear ! 
'Twas  longer  than  it  used  to  be,  when  little  Jim  was 

here; 
And  then  he  wore  a  little  fi'ock,  all  pure  and  white,  like 

snow, 
With  little  shoes  of  gold  and  green — oh,  mother,  may  I 

go?" 

The  mother  took  her  little  boy,  but  oh,  she  could  not 

speak — 
The  tears  that  glistened  in  her  eyes,  now  trickled  down 

her  cheek ; 
For  well  she  knew  an  angel  had  revealed  the  truth  to 

him, 
And  soon  her  darling  Frank  would  go  to  live  with  little 

Jim. 


FRANK   AXD   LITTLE  JIM.  105 

That  mother's  home,  how  dark  it  grew — it  has  no  sun- 
light now, 

For  little  Frank  grew  sick  and  pale,  the  fever  burned  his 
brow ; 

So  when  the  stars  were  going  to  sleep,  and  rosy  light 
was  dawning, 

He  breathed  his  little  life  away  one  pretty  Autumn 
morning. 

The  Summer  will  come  back  and  bring  her  flowers  of 

every  hue, 
The  robin  and  the  wren  will  come  to  build  their  nests 

anew; 
But  that  mother  will  not  heed  them,  for  her  eyes  are 

growing  dim — 
She  soon  will  go  to  live  again  with  Frank  and  little  Jim  ? 


106  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


UNDER    THE   WILLOW. 

How  often  I  lay  me  down  under  the  willow, 

Where  a  little  brook  waltzes  so  merrily  by ; 
And  resting  my  head  on  my  arm  for  a  pillow, 

Gaze  up  through  the  branches  far  into  the  sky. 
Then  I  think  of  that  beautiful  land  where  the  fountains 

Of  knowledge  shall  flow  through  all  coming  time  : 
Where  the  pure  waters  wander  through  evergreen  moun- 
tains— 

Where  life  is  a  treasure,  a  pleasure  sublime  ! 

And  sometime  I  think  where  the  Jordan  is  flowing, 

Of  a  sweet  little,  dear  little,  heart-loving  child ; 
She  went  away  when  the  summer  was  going, — 

Oh,  how  we  all  missed  her  sweet,  sunny  smile. 
But  methinks  she  can  see  through  the  vapory  curtain, 

That  hides  her  away  in  the  land  of  the  soul ; 
And  perhaps  it  is  well,  for  we  are  not  quite  certain 

That  the  heart  will  keep  pure  as  the  body  grows  old. 

Now,  while  I  am  writing,  I  think  of  another — 

Perhaps  he  is  with  me,  the  fair,  gentle  youth  ; 
For  he  knew  that  I  loved  him  as  dear  as  a  brother, 

With  his  soul  full  of  wisdom,  and  heart  full  of  truth. 
He  went  away  when  the  winter  was  dawning, 

To  fight  for  his  country,  her  freedom  to  gain  ; 
Ah  !  little  we  thought  when  we  bid  him  good  morning, 

That  the  winter  so  long  in  our  hearts  would  remain. 


UNDER    THE  WILLOW.  107 

We  heard  from  the  "  boys,"  they  praised  him  and  blessed 
him, 

And  said  he  would  ever  be  true  to  the  last ; 
We  heard  from  the  "boys,"  but,  oh,  how  distressing ! 

The  good  little  fellow  slept  under  the  grass. 
But  his  spirit  went  up  on  the  rainbow  supernal, 

For  he  saw  the  white  flag  on  the  top  of  the  hall — 
I  have  many  more  in  that  mansion  eternal ; 

It  would  take  me  too  long  should  I  tell  of  them  all. 

Oh,  the  stars  never  tread  through  the  pathway  of  even, 

And  the  sun  never  wakes  up  the*  morning  so  fair, 
But  I  think  of  my  friends,  and  my  Father  in  Heaven, 

And  wish  that  I,  too,  in  their  glories  might  share. 
Then  I  take  up  my  Bible,  that  great  spirit  fountain, 

And  careful  its  pages  I  read  one  by  one ; 
And  I  study  the  sermon  Christ  preached  on  the  moun- 
tain: 

"As  ye  sow  shall  ye  reap,"  when  the  harvest  shall 
come ! 

Then  I  wish  I  had  gone  when  young,  or  in  childhood ; 

When  my  thoughts  were  all  pure,  and  my  heart  full  of 

love ; 
When  I  made  little  prayers  out  under  the  wildwood. 

And  tried  to  be  good,  like  the  Saviour  above. 
When  Nature  was  playing  her  harps  in  the  breeze, 

And  I  listened,  all  ear,  to  her  teachings  so  true, 
When  I  thought  that  the  angels  lived  up  in  the  trees, 

And  looked  up  and  saw  the  great  God  in  the  blue. 

But  when  I  grew  older  I  listened  to  man, 

Who  said  it  was  foolish  with  Nature  to  play ; 
So  I  jumped  on  the  wheel,  took  tickets  with  them, 

But  the  prizes  I  drew  drove  the  angels  away. 
And  my  heart  has  grown  cold  in  the  great  tide  of  fashion, 

My  garments  are  spotted  with  sin-dew  and  blight ; 
But  I  know  that  my  father  will  look  with  compassion, 

If  I  ask  Him,  and  lead  me  again  in  the  light. 


108  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

I  shall  throw  up  my  cards  in  the  great  worldly  mart, 

For  my  spirit  is  torn  with  temptation  and  woes ; 
I  must  play  in  a  game  where  the  prize  is  a  chart 

That  will  lead  me  at  last  to  a  holy  repose. 
For  I  feel  there  is  one,  I  can  no  longer  doubt  it, 

(Though  I  know  the  big  people  around  me  will  smile  ;) 
But  I  shall  go  back  to  God — talk  with  him  about  it, 

And  ask  him  to  keep  me  a  true-hearted  child. 


WHAT   THE   ANGEL  TOLD   ME.  109 


WHAT    THE   ANGEL   TOLD    ME. 

I  was  thinking  one  morning  as  I  looked  at  the  sky, 
And  beheld  a  bright  rainbow  let  down  from  on  high, 
That  perhaps  some  freed  spirits  were  going  above, 
And  this  was  the  path  to  their  mansions  of  love. 
So  I  laid  down  my  book  by  a  tree  that  stood  by, 
For  I  felt  that  the  spirit  of  worship  was  nigh ; 
And  sat  very  quiet  on  a  green  mossy  sod, 
Till  I  saw  in  vision  an  angel  of  God  ! 

Oh,  bright  was  the  hue  of  his  radiant  wing, 
And  sweet  was  the  song  that  the  angel  did  sing ; 
While  a  sweeter  expression  than  mortal  can  wear, 
Shone  out  from  his  face  through  his  soft,  golden  hair. 
And  a  halo  of  light  round  his  pathway  was  flung, 
Such  as  lights  up  the  earth  when  the  morning  is  young, 
As  down  from  the  sky  did  he  gently  descend, 
And  stood  by  my  side  like  some  dearly  loved  friend. 

His  voice  was  so  musical,  cheerful  and  kind, 
That  moment  I  would  on  his  breast  have  reclined, 
As  gently  he  placed  his  white  hand  on  my  brow, 
And  said,  My  young  friend,  will  you  go  with  me  now  ? 
I  then  gave  him  my  hand  as  he  pointed  above, 
For  I  felt  he  had  come  on  a  mission  of  love ; 
Then  quickly  rose  like  the  floweret's  perfume, 
And  floated  away  like  a  zephyr  in  June. 
10 


110  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

I  know  not  the  course  that  he  bore  me  along, 

Till  we  stood  unobserved  in  the  midst  of  a  throng ; 

Where  the  gay  and  the  thoughtless  were  painting  their 

doom, 

By  wasting  their  time  in  vain  fashion's  saloon ; 
Then  onward  we  passed,  other  scenes  to  behold — 
Through  halls  where  millionaires  counted  their  gold ; 
Though  thousands  by  thousands  lay  by  on  the  shelf, 
But  yet  they  toiled  onward,  still  gleaning  for  self. 

He  then  led  me  on  from  the  palace  of  mirth, 

To  the  homes  of  the  poor,  and  the  lonely  of  earth ; 

Through  the  prisons  so  dark,  where  humanity  moan 

Oftimes  for  the  sins  that  were  never  their  own. 

He  then  spake  to  me  thus :  "  Live,  thy  Master  to  please ; 

Let  thy  life  upon  earth  be  a  blessing  to  these ; 

For  the  world  has  not  learned  that  all  should  be  brothers, 

And  few  can  be  found  that  are  living  for  others." 

Again,  and  we  stood  in  the  chamber  of  death, 
With  naught  to  disturb,  save  the  quivering  breath 
Of  a  lovely  young  maiden,  so  fair  to  behold, 
For  virtue  and  truth  were  the  gems  of  her  soul ; 
And  she  feared  not  the  dash  of  the  boatman's  oar — 
She  had  fought  the  good  fight,  and  her  battles  were  o'er ; 
And  her  face  lighted  up  full  of  sweetness  and  love, 
As  she  spoke  of  her  beautiful  mansion  above — 
As  she  sang  of  its  glories ;  then  ending  in  prayer — 
Oh,  I  shall  always  believe  that  the  angels  were  there  ! 

He  then  clasped  my  hand — led  me  back  to  the  spot, 
To  my  book  by  the  tree,  I  so  quick  had  forgot ; 
Then  smilingly  said,  ere  he  floated  above  : 
"  Thy  mission  on  earth  is  a  mission  of  love. 
Then  list  to  the  cry  when  thy  brother  shall  call, 
Let  thy  mantle  of  love  on  the  erring  one  fall ; 
Seek  out  the  degraded,  put  a  star  in  his  breast — 
Lead  the  sick  and  the  sad  to  the  fountain  of  rest. 


WHAT  THE   ANGEL  TOLD  ME.  Ill 

No  longer  stand  doubting ;  take  thy  standard  of  truth, 
And  go  forth  to  thy  work  in  the  mom  of  thy  youth ; 
Put  on  the  whole  armor,  go  forth  in  the  strife, 
And  our  Father  will  smile  on  the  book  of  thy  life  ! " 
The  time  is  long  passed,  but  the  angel  I  see, 
And  the  lesson  he  taught  is  the  present  to  me ; 
Round  the  chords  of  my  soul  they  have  tremblingly  clung. 
And  the  echo  it  gives  is  the  song  I  have  sung. 


112  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


OLD    PICTURES    FRAMED. 


How  often  I  think  of  the  days  long  departed, 
When  I  lived  at  the  homestead  with  grandfather  Gray ; 

And  spent  all  the  days  of  my  youth  fairy-hearted, 
With  scarcely  a  shadow  to  darken  the  way. 

That  old-fashioned  mansion,  how  plainly  I  see  it, 

With    its    kitchen  and  "tea-room,"  and  the   buttery 
between, 

Where  often  at  twilight,  when  they  all  went  a  milking, 
I  stole  in  so  slyly,  just  to  taste  of  the  cream  ! 

There's  the  old  red  partition,  at  the  end  of  the  passage, 
And  the  beams  ovei'head, — those  large  oaken  logs ; 

Where  grandmother  hung  up  her  bacon  and  sausage 
To  keep  them  away  from  the  cats  and  the  dogs. 

Then  there  was  the  garret, — how  gloomy  and  drear, 
Where  I  with  the  kittens  went  a  hunting  so  nice, 

Among  the  old  rubbish,  both  ancient  and  queer, 
I  for  antiquities,  they  for  the  mice. 

And  oft  thro1  the  long  summer  days  have  I  sported, 
And  picked  the  ripe  berries  that  grew  in  the  wood, 

For  my  old  maiden  aunt,  whom  nobody  courted 
For  the  very  good  reason  that  nobody  could ! 


OLD   PICTURES  FRAMED.  113 

And  IVe  not  forgot  the  night  Ansel  came  courting, 
And  Jane,  who  was  always  on  hand  for  a  spree, 

Said  if  Td  tend  the  bacon  and  keep  it  a  smoking, 
She  would  tell  in  the  morning  the  secret  to  me  ! 

Long  hours  did  I  sit  on  the  "  dye-tub"  and  wonder 
What  Ansel  and  Jane  so  long  were  about ; 

Till  the  corn-cobs  were  black  as  a  cloud  full  of  thunder, 
Did  I  solve  for  the  secret,  but  could  not  find  out. 

But  then  I  soon  learned  by  patiently  waiting, 

That  things  took  a  turn  from  their  doings  that  night ; 

For  Ansel  no  more  came  to  grandma's  a  courting, 
And  Jane  went  to  muster  with  young  farmer  Wright ! 

But  no  more  shall  I  carry  to  grandpa  his  "  nipper," 
For  long  years  ago  he  slept  under  the  grass ; 

Nor  go  down  to  the  hay  fields,  with  tin  pail  and  dipper, 
For  cider  and  "  switchel"  belong  to  the  past. 

And  grandmother,  too,  she  could  no  longer  tarry, 
For  her  life  was  worn  out  in  the  mission  of  love ; 

Followed  on  with  as  much  as  her  spirit  could  carry, 
To  meet  him  again  in  the  mansions  above. 
10* 


114  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


CHILDHOOD    HOURS. 

Oh,  give  me  back  my  childhood  hours, 

When  I  was  young,  and  free 
To  roam  among  the  woodland  bowers, 

By  mountain  side  and  lea  ! 
To  chase  beneath  the  noonday  sun 

The  golden  butterfly ; 
And  sail  my  boat  upon  the  tide, 

Beneath  the  sunset  sky. 

Oh,  give  me  back  my  mountain  hours, 

When  not  a  care  I  knew ; 
With  heart  as  gay  as  summer  flowers, 

And  light  as  evening  dew ! 
To  trace  along  the  hidden  path, 

That  winds  by  rock  and  stream ; 
And  pluck  the  daisy  from  its  bed, 

Among  the  mossy  green ! 

Oh,  give  me  back  my  childhood  hours, 

My  schoolmates  young  and  gay ; 
To  roam  again  in  quest  of  flowers, 

The  pleasant  fields  of  May  ! 
And  then  at  noon  to  sit  and  chat, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree ; 
And  eat  our  bread  and  butter  there, 

And  call  it  "  taking  tea !  " 


CHILDHOOD   HOURS.  115 

Oh  give  me  back  my  childhood  hours, 

The  dearest  to  my  heart ; 
When  I  could  sit  in  Nature's  bowers 

And  see  the  day  depart. 
When  I  could  view  the  Queen  of  Night 

In  lovely  beauty  dressed, 
Casting  her  silver  rays  of  light, 

To  make  the  earth  look  blest ! 

Oh,  give  me  back  my  childhood  hours, 

Where  memory  loves  to  dwell — 
Too  dear  they  are  to  be  forgot, 

I  ever  loved  them  well ; 
But  childhood  hours,  and  halcyon  scenes, 

Will  ne'er  return  again ; 
And  I  must  leave  my  boyhood  dreams, 

And  live  like  other  men  ! 


116  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


LETTER   NUMBER    FOUR. 

May  27th. — May!  who  ever  thought  of  writing  thy 
sweet  name  without  first  twining  around  it  a  wreath  of 
violets  and  buttercups?  How  the  universal  heart  of 
man  blesses  her — bright  harbinger  of  an  immortal  dawn 
— coming  forth  from  the  icy  caverns  of  winter  to  preach 
resurrection  to  the  children  of  earth,  and  sending  out  her 
mandates  to  unlock  the  beautiful  halls  of  Nature,  that 
shall  transform  the  old  earth  again  into  an  Eden,  and 
make  the  world  a  Paradise  ! 

How  inspiring  are  thy  influences,  thou  ever  glorious 
May  month !  The  icy  chains  that  locked  the  little 
stream  to  the  stone  butments  of  the  old  bridge  have 
yielded  to  her  gentle  power,  and  go  singing  down  the 
hill-sides ;  the  south  winds  touch  the  tuneful  strings  to 
their  aerial  harps,  giving  forth  their  responsive  echoes, 
while  beauty  and  utility  join  hands  and  dance  together 
down  the  garden  walks.  All  Nature  seems  jubilant 
over  the  new  awakening,  and  ready  to  reveal  all  things, 
if  man  will  only  learn  her  language.  The  little  bed  of 
violets,  growing  under  the  fence-rails,  would  teach  us 
more  truth  than  whole  pages  of  periodical  reading,  if 
we  would  listen  to  her  instructions,  and  give  them  an 
earnest  thought.  But  their  simple  truths  will  never  be 
lost  to  society ;  man  will  breathe  them  in,  and  through 


LETTER  NUMBER  FOUR.  117 

the  secret  channels  of  inspiration,  the  little  field  flower 
shall  be  a  messenger  between  earth  and  heaven — a 
spirit-link  between  God  and  man  ! 

I  am  continually  reminded  of  the  impartiality  of  God 
all  through  the  joyous,  budding  spring-time ;  because 
in  his  great  distribution  of  gifts  and  blessings,  he  don't 
forget  the  little  shrubs  and  vines  by  the  way-side,  and 
the  old  crooked  apple-tree  out  in  the  cow-pasture,  but 
fills  its  mossy  arms  as  bountifully  with  leaves  and  flow- 
ers as  he  does  the  rich  man's  ten-acre  lot  of  oaks  and 
maples.  And  so  it  is  in  the'  higher  manifestations  of 
life.  The  rich  lady  that  idles  away  her  precious  time  in 
reclining  on  downy  cushions  of  embroidered  satin, 
admiring  the  pretty  patterns  of  her  new  tapestry,  is  no 
more  a  special  favorite  of  God  than  the  old  apple-woman 
that  sits  under  the  elms  on  Boston  Common,  and  sells 
her  cakes  and  candy  to  the  dirty  little  orphan  boys.  The 
rich  lady  is  surrounded  by  luxury  and  ease,  and  her 
mind  is  absorbed  with  the  latest  fashions,  preferring  a 
life  of  senseless  frivolity  to  that  of  a  more  industrious, 
worthy  and  noble  type.  The  old  apple-woman — we 
know  there  are  angel  visitants  in  the  leafy  branches 
above  her  head,  and  who  can  tell  what  great  truth  she 
may  be  solving  as  she  sits  by  her  little  work-bench, 
watching  the  waving  grass  at  her  feet,  through  the  long 
summer  days  ?  Reader,  beside  the  neatly  swept  garden 
walks  the  poisonous  nettle  hides  itself,  and  shoots  out 
its  barbed  arrows  at  the  passers-by;  while  from  the 
homely  mud-pond  the  delicate  lily  braids  her  snowy 
petals,  and  opes  her  jewel-cup  of  celestial  odors.  In 
the  darkness  of  midnight  the  cunning  spider  weaves  his 
net  of  silvery  spray  among  the  rose  branches,  to  catch 
the  unwaiy  flies  that  come  out  to  swim  in  the  fragrant 
morning  air.  If  we  blow  our  soap-bubbles  in  the  shad- 
ows, they  are  void  of  beauty ;  but  if  we  blow  them  in 
the  sunshine,  they  wear  the  hues  of  the  rainbow ;  but 


118  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

we  should  remember,  though  they  are  pretty  things  to 
look  at,  they  are  bubbles  still. 

You  will  forgive  my  vagaries,  LUTHER,  and  not  mis- 
understand me.  It  is  simply  my  way  of  saying  that  the 
Saviours  of  the  nineteenth  century  may  be  walking  your 
streets  in  tattered  garments,  while  the  devil  sits  on  vel- 
vet cushions  in  your  fashionable  churches,  playing  at 
nine-pins  with  rich  people's  souls  ! 


THE   WAYWARD   LEAF.  119 


THE    WAYWARD    LEAF. 


It  was  a  wee  little  bit  of  a  leaf  that  stirred 
Close  by,  as  I  sat  on  a  mossy  old  stone  ; 

And  the  song  that  it  sang  was  the  noise  I  heard 
As  it  flew  from  its  wild-wood  home. 

'Twas  a  brown  little  leaf  with  a  golden  crest, 

Of  the  hardy  white-oak  stock ; 
And  the  untamed  spirit  in  its  youthful  breast, 

Looked  with  scorn  on  its  lonely  lot. 

And  he  said  "  there  can  be  no  joys  for  me, 

'Mid  such  gray  old  forest  trees ;  " 
So  he  snapped  the  tie  from  the  parent  tree, 

And  went  off  on  a  passing  breeze. 

Then  the  old  tree  wept  in  violent  grief, 

As  it  felt  great  throbs  of  pain  ; 
For  never,  it  knew,  would  the  wayward  leaf 

Return  to  its  home  again. 

But  the  leaf  went  on  in  its  wayward  flight, 
For  it  thought  that  no  one  was  so  wise  as  he  ; 

And  to  dance  and  sing  was  his  delight, 

With  the  scarlet  brier  and  the  dog-wood  tree. 


120  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

But,  alas  !  they  proved  a  poisonous  snare, 
And  the  silly  leaf  with  the  golden  edge, 

No  longer  smiled  in  the  sunny  air, 

But  ended  its  life  by  the  way-side  hedge. 

I  then  thought  how  many  a  wayward  child, 
Has  left  the  shade  of  a  quiet  home ; 

Like  the  little  leaf  in  the  forest  wild, 
'Mid  the  gayer  scenes  of  life  to  roam. 

How  many  a  youth  has  been  led  astray, 
By  the  tempting  juice  of  the  purple  hedge  ; 

How  many  a  parent  weeps  to-day 

O'er  the  blighted  hopes  of  a  "  golden  edge." 

One  word,  oh  youth  !  do  not  despise 
The  sage  advice  so  often  given ; 

That  tells  you  where  the  danger  lies, 

And  points  the  path  to  peace  and  Heaven. 


TO  I  KNOW  WHOM — BUT  YOU   DON'T.  121 


TO  I  KNOW  WHOM— BUT  YOU  DONT. 

When  the  earth  is  arrayed  in  her  mantle  of  Spring, 
And  the  hum  of  the  insect  makes  the  pine  forest  ring ; 
When  the  soul  in  the  fountain  again  has  been  stirred, 
And  the  notes  of  the  robin's  glad  music  is  heard, 
As  he  sits  through  the  day  on  his  evergreen  throne, 
And  sings  to  his  mate  in  their  rock-a-bye  home ; 
When  the  zephyrs  are  tuning  their  harps  in  the  tree, 
And  the  mosses  look  green — will  you  then  think  of  me  ? 

When  the  Summer  is  here,  and  the  warmth  of  her  wing 

Makes  the  rushes  grow  tall  by  the  side  of  the  spring ; 

When  the  farmer  is  out  at  the  dawning  of  day, 

And  you  smell  the  sweet  fragrance  of  new-mown  hay  ; 

When  Nature  is  out  in  a  frolicsome  mood, 

And  you  roam  the  green  valleys  and  cool,  shady  wood, 

When  the  yellow  wasp  goes  on  a  hunt  with  the  bee, 

And  the  berries  are  blue — will  you  then  think  of  me  ? 

When  the  Autumn  time  comes  with  her  stores  of  ripe 

grains, 

And  drives  from  the  fields  with  her  deep-laden  trains ; 
When  the  harvest-moon  throws  her  soft  light  o'er  the 

lawn, 

And  you  pull  the  dry  husk  from  the  bright  yellow  corn ; 
11 


122  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

When  the  insect  shall  weave  him  a  silken-warp  casket, 
And  the  acorn  looks  brown  in  its  coral-wood  basket ; 
When  the  ivy  that  twines  round  the  mossy  old  tree 
Turns  red  in  the  Autumn — will  you  then  think  of  me  ? 

In  some  far  distant  day,  when  the  morning  is  bright, 
When  my  spirit  is  dwelling  in  realms  of  delight, 
Where  groves  of  rich  fragrance  stand  ever  arrayed, 
And  its  flowers  are  so  brilliant  they  never  can  fade ; 
Should  you  walk  with  some  friend  in  some  evergreen 

bower, 

Where  the  pine-needles  fall,  and  sweet  nods  the  flower, 
And  should  see  a  green  grave  'neath  the  wide-spreading 

tree, 
Whei'e  the  holly  bush  shines — will  you  then  think  of  me  ? 


THREE    SCORE   YEARS   AND   TEN.  123 


THREE  SCORE  YEARS  AND  TEN. 

An  old  man  walked  at  close  of  day, 

Across  the  village  lawn, 
He  watched  the  breezes  dance  and  play 

With  the  leaves  of  the  growing  corn, 
And  he  thought  of  the  time  when  he  danced  as  they, 

When  he  was  young  and  strong. 

He  thought  of  the  time — how  short  it  seemed — 

When  he  was  a  laughing  child, 
And  played  with  his  mates  on  the  village  green, 

And  their  shouts  rang  loud  and  wild, 
And  he  wondered  why  it  pleased  him  so 

To  dream  of  the  faiiy  isle ! 

The  children  shouted  down  the  lane, 

For  the  children's  hearts  were  glad ; 
The  old  man  leaned  upon  his  cane, 

For  the  old  man's  heart  was  sad ; 
I  wondered  why  he  turned  to  weep, 

For  many  friends  he  had  ! 

Again  I  walked  the  village  street, 

The  ground  was  coated  o'er ; 
The  children  coasted  down  the  hill 

As  merry  as  before  ; 
But  the  old  man's  hat  was  on  the  peg, 

His  cane  behind  the  door. 


124  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

My  thoughts  ran  through  that  old  man's  life 

Of  sunny  visions  fled, 
As  through  the  church-yard  gate  they  passed 

With  slow  and  solemn  tread, 
And  laid  the  old  man  down  to  rest 

Among  the  aged  dead. 


A  PEEP  THROUGH  THE  WINDOW.  125 


A  PEEP  THROUGH  THE  WINDOW. 

Just  one  moment  from  the  street, 
Let  me  step  one  side  and  peep 

'Neath  the  curtain, 
And  I'll  tell  you  what  they're  about, 
If  you  will  not  bring  me  out, — 

Tell  you  certain ! 

On  the  hearth-stone  by  the  fire, 
In  a  good  old-fashion  chair, 

Painted  red, 

Lits  my  uncle,  leaning  'sorter 
On  his  little  black-eyed  daughter's 

Curly  head. 

Close  beside  them,  in  the  rear, 
Sits  Aunt  Hannah,  with  a  tear 

In  her  eye ; 

If  it  will  not  break  the  spell, 
Would  you  like  to  have  me  tell 

The  I'eason  why  ? 

She  is  thinking  of  her  son, 
With  his  soldier's  belt  and  gun, 

Far  away ; 

And  she  oifers  up  a  prayer, 
That  God  will  protect  him  there 

In  the  fray ! 
11* 


126  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

In  the  corner,  like  a  column, 

Stands  the  old  clock,  grim  and  solemn, 

Keeping  time, 
As  it  did  in  days  of  yore, 
When  it  entered  through  the  door 

In  its  prime. 

I  remember  how  I  cried 
When  my  Uncle  Henry  died 

In  this  room ; 

And  shall  ne'er  forget  the  day 
When  they  carried  him  away 

To  the  tomb. 

Often  by  this  very  door, 
Half  a  score  of  years  or  more, 

In  the  shade, — 

Where  the  vine  is  taught  to  bend 
All  around  the  gable  end, 

Have  I  played. 

But  now,  alas  !  I'm  older  grown, 
And  a  shadow  has  been  thrown 

All  around ; 

Some  of  those  I  loved  to  meet, 
By  the  village  church  now  sleep, 

In  the  ground ! 


GOOD-BYE,   OLD  WORLD,   I'M   GOING  HOME.         127 


GOOD-BYE,  OLD  WORLD,  I'M  GOING  HOME.* 

AIR — I  have  a  Father  in  the  Promised  Land. 

I  feel  that  the  old  world  is  fading  from  my  view ; 
Good-bye,  old  world,  a  happy  adieu ! 
In  losing  sight  of  thee  I'm  gazing  on  the  new — 
My  home  in  the  bright  land  above. 

Then  come,  come  with  me  to  the  bright  happy  land ; 
Give  the  Father  your  heart,  and  the  Saviour  your  hand ; 
We  shall  all  meet  again,  a  joyous  band, 
And  praise  Him  in  the  bright  home  above. 

One  little  struggle,  and  my  earth-life  is  o'er. 
I  see  the  angels  smiling  and  I  hear  the  muffled  oar. 
Good-bye,  brothers,  I'm  nearing  the  shore, 
To  my  home  in  the  bright  happy  land. 

Make  me  a  grave  where  the  breezes  shall  play ; 
Shed  not  a  tear  o'er  my  cold  form  of  clay ; 
But  sing  me  a  song  when  you  lay  it  away — 
I  shall  hear  it  in  the  bright  home  above. 


NOTE. — Cousin  Benja  sends  us  the  following  lines,  written  at  a  time  when 
he  could  almost  hear  the  splash  of  the  boatman's  oar  that  is,  sooner  or 
later,  to  ferry  him  "over  the  river."  We  should  be  very  sorry  to  have  our 
"Benja"  go  in  that  direction  just  at  present ;  but  we  are  glad  to  see  him  so 
cheerfully  awaiting  the  change.  We  trust  there  are  many  long  days,  and 
happy  ones,  for  him  on  earth  yet,  and  that  he  will  bestow  many  sweet  songs 
upon  the  pilgrims  here  to  cheer  them  on  their  homeward  way. — Editor  of 
the  Banner  of  Light. 


128  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

I  shall  wait  for  your  coming  on  the  beautiful  shore ; 
I  shall  be  first  to  meet  you  when  your  earth-life  is  o'er ; 
We  shall  meet  again  to  part  no  more, 
But  dwell  in  the  bright  home  above. 


LETTER  NUMBER  FIVE.  129 


LETTER  NUMBER  FIVE. 

August  9th. — Guess  where  I  am,  LUTHER  !  "In  some 
little  seven-by-nine  room  in  the  great  noisome  city,  walled 
in  with  brick  and  mortar,  surrounded  by  manuscripts  and 
printers'  ink  ? "  No ;  but  out  here  in  a  little  rustic  sum- 
mer-house, eating  berries  and  cream  !  It  is  really  deli- 
cious. And  then  the  morning  is  beautiful !  Oh,  I  do 
think  if  old  Mother  Nature  ever  gets  tired  of  turning  her 
great  wheel,  and  stops  to  take  breath,  she  will  certainly 
spend  her  vacation  in  the  country. 

How  I  wish  you  were  with  me  this  moment,  that  you 
might  drink  in  the  grandeur  of  the  scenery ;  and  if  your 
memory  was  a  daguerreotype  machine,  you  could  place 
this  little  picture  in  the  halls  of  it,  where  you  could  look 
at  it  when  your  soul  needs  the  refreshment  of  rural  life ; 
for  Nature  and  I  are  old  friends,  and  I  should  endeavor 
to  show  you  some  of  her  choicest  pictures,  in  a  light  let 
in  only  from  above. 

I  am  seated  here  in  a  rustic  arm-chair,  with  a  little 
table  before  me  made  of  the  same  rough  material,  over 
which  is  suspended  a  vase  of  periwinkle  and  other  pen- 
dant plants.  The  old  brown  posts  and  lattice-work  are 
thickly  covered  with  clematis  and  honeysuckle,  while  the 
little  bright-eyed  verbenas  and  larkspurs  play  bo-peep 
through  the  openings,  doing  all  they  can  to  make  the 
naughty  old  world  happy  again.  But,  wait !  there  goes 
a  butterfly — and,  LUTHER,  do  you  please  whisper  in 


130  FOEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

" IRENE'S "  ear,  that  he  is  all  alone;  and — yes,  he  has 
lit  on  a  bachelor's  button  !  Ah',  me  !  there  will  be  no 
cupids  coming  this  way  now.  Query:  perhaps  they  can- 
not get  over  the  "  hedgerow" 

To  me  there  is  something  beautiful  in  the  idea  of  those 
wild  vines,  twining  themselves  so  lovingly  around  the 
rustic  posts.  Oh,  that  man  would  learn  a  lesson  of 
wisdom  from  Nature,  and  let  the  tender  vines  of  sim- 
plicity and  affection  twine  around  their  hearts,  and  shield 
them  from  the  scorching  sun-rays  of  avarice,  which  is 
withei*ing  up  the  fruit  buds  of  innocents  that  are  waiting 
to  grow  and  expand  on  the  tree  Immortal.  But  they 
will  not ;  they  have  outgrown  their  text-book  of  child- 
hood, and  forgotten  many  of  its  beautiful  lessons ;  they 
can  now  see  nothing  to  love  and  admire  in  the  grand  old 
forest  trees,  but  their  measurement  in  timber  and  wood ; 
no  beauty  in  the  crystal  waterfall,  but  its  power  of  labor ; 
and  we  often  hear  them  inquiring,  "What  is  the  use  to 
expend  so  much  time  and  money  for  something  to  look 
at?"  As  though  the  only  indispensable  things  in  this 
life  were  corn,  beans  and  potatoes,  tobacco  and  cotton 
cloth.  Poor  mortals !  I  pity  them,  for  they  know  not 
that  "  a  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever ; "  but  when  the 
great  dictionary  of  life  is  printed,  and  they  have  the 
proof-sheets  to  correct,  methinks  they  will  wish  they  had 
remembered  more  of  the  lessons  they  studied  in  the  little 
floral  text-book  of  childhood. 

August  \0th. —  "  Is  that  a  candle-mold?"  said  my  good 
neighbor,  Deacon  Joel,  as  he  came  into  my  room  one 
morning,  and  taking  up  a  little  unique  vase  supported 
by  the  figure  of  Venus,  in  which  I  was  arranging  some 
flowers.  "  Look  o'  here,  why  can't  you  lend  it  to  my 
wife  some  day  when  she  wants  to  run  a  few  ? "  No, 
indeed,  said  I,  that  is  not  a  candle-mold,  neither  can 
your  Avife  have  it  to  run  them  in.  That  is  an  emblem  of 
the  goddess  of  Grace,  the  author  of  elegance  and  beauty ; 


LETTER  NUMBER  FIVE.  131 

and  you  will  please  put  it  down  immediately ;  for  I  could 
not  see  it  so  desecrated  as  to  remain  in  the  hands  of  one 
who  had  so  little  love  for  the  beautiful  in  his  soul,  even 
for  a  moment.  Then  taking  up  a  little  microscope,  I 
asked  him  to  look  through  it  at  the  pretty  flowers  I  was 
arranging;  to  examine  the  finely  cut  ferns  with  their 
delicate  palms ;  to  notice  the  beautiful  circulation,  so 
closely  allied  to  that  of  man,  moving  through  veins  and 
arteries  and  leafy  lungs.  I  then  told  him  that  the  flow- 
ers were  but  the  expansion  of  the  elements  that  compose 
the  leaf  and  bud,  and  that  the  little  figure  holding  the 
sheaf,  which  he  had  called  a  candle-mold,  Avas  significant 
of  a  better  state  of  society — of  the  "  good  time  coming," 
when  muskets  would  no  longer  be  fired  from  doors  and 
windows  at  the  passer-by,  and  bombshells  be  bursting  in 
little  children's  bed-chambers;  when  men  would  carry 
roses  in  their  button-holes,  instead  of  pistols  in  their 
pockets,  and  governments  would  build  reformatory  in- 
stitutions and  green-houses,  instead  of  gunboats  and 
arsenals.  But  I  failed  to  make  him  see  those  beautiful 
truths,  or  to  understand  my  meaning.  Had  they  been 
hammered  out  on  some  theological  anvil,  he  would 
probably  have  grasped  them  at  once ;  but  when  I  told 
him  that  the  highest  truths  my  soul  had  ever  received 
during  my  earth  pilgrimage,  had  been  taught  me  by  the 
harmonious  unfoldings  of  Nature,  and  that  I  had  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  always  safe  to  take  lessons 
from  the  beautiful  and  good,  he  braced  himself  up  in  a 
stiff,  Orthodox  attitude,  and  said,  "  You  had  better 
throw  away  your  weeds  and  plaster  image,  and  not 
waste  so  much  time  over  nonsense ;  but  learn  to  love 
God,  and  try  to  get  religion  in  your  heart."  I  thought, 
as  I  had  often  done  before,  how  those  strange  people  do 
mystify  me ;  but  I  tried  to  be  pitiful,  as  I  thought  I 
should  some  day  want  God  to  be  to  me.  Then  stepping 
on  his  toes  as  I  turned  around,  to  see  if  he  really  had  a 


132  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

soul  or  not,  I  bade  him  good  morning,  hoping  that  when 
he  was  laid  away  in  his  mahogany  box  under  the  marble, 
that  some  good  friend  would  carve  on  his  tombstone  a 
skull  and  cross-bones,  as  an  emblem  of  his  love  for  the 
beautiful. 


THE   FROCK  AND  SHOES.  133 


THE    FROCK    AND    SHOES. 

A  little  frock  but  slightly  worn, 

Of  blue  and  white  delaine, 
With  edging  round  the  neck  and  sleeves, 

Lay  folded  neat  and  plain, 
Beside  a  little  pair  of  shoes, 

With  here  and  there  a  flaw, 
Lay  half  concealed  among  the  things 

In  mother's  bureau  drawer. 

Summer  had  passed  away  from  earth 

With  all  her  sweetest  ties ; 
The  birds  had  left  their  Summer  haunts 

For  more  congenial  skies ; 
The  twilight  breezes  sweetly  played 

Among  the  dews  of  even — 
An  angel  left  his  home  on  high 

To  gather  flowers  for  heaven  ! 

The  angel  near  and  nearer  came 

Where  sister  sick  did  lie ; 
Then  gently  fanned  her  faded  cheek, 

And  pointed  to  the  sky. 
The  morning  shone  upon  the  bed, 

The  Autumn  winds  blew  free, 
The  angel  moved  his  silvery  wings, 

And  whispered,  "  Come  with  me  ! " 
12 


134  POEMS    AND    LETTERS. 

We  gathered  round  her  dying  bed 

With  hearts  to  weep  and  pray ; 
And  many  were  the  tears  we  shed 

When  sister  passed  away. 
"  No  idle  tears  had  she  to  weep," 

No  sins  to  be  forgiven, 
But  closed  her  eyes  and  went  to  sleep 

Right  in  the  face  of  heaven ! 

We  laid  her  in  the  earth's  green  breast, 

Down  by  the  village  green, 
Where  gently  waves  the  dewy  grass, 

And  Summer  flowers  are  seen ; 
And  often  when  our  mother  goes 

To  get  her  things  to  use, 
I  see  her  drop  a  silent  tear 

On  sister's  frock  and  shoes. 


SNOW.  135 


SNOW. 

Beautiful  snow  ! — born  above, 
Sent  to  earth  on  a  mission  of  love  ; 
Seeming  spirits  crowned  with  light, 
Dressed  in  robes  of  purest  white, 
Coming  down  on  the  wings  of  the  storms — 
Filling  the  air  with  their  starry  forms, 
Where'er  its  winding  pathway  leads, 
Scattering  love  and  gentle  deeds — 
Beautiful  snow,  beautiful  snow ! 
Angels  dress  like  the  beautiful  snow  ! 

Beautiful  snow,  beautiful  snow  ! 
Filling  the  air  and  the  earth  below  ; 
Hiding  the  path  through  wood  and  glen — 
Falling  down  on  the  heads  of  men ; 
Clasping  hands  with  the  birch  and  larch, 
Over  the  road  like  a  coral  arch  ! 
Whirling,  twirling  over  the  ridge, 
Spanning  the  stream  with  a  fairy  bridge ; 
Piling  its  treasures  under  the  walls, 
Throwing  a  drapery  over  the  falls ; 
Kissing  the  eddies  down  below — 
Oh,  I  wish  I  was  pure,  like  the  beautiful  snow  ! 

Coming  to  earth — silent  as  death — 
Light  and|soft  as  an  angel's  breath  ! 
Leaving  its  finger-prints  on  the  latch, 


136  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

Covering  the  roof  with  a  velvety  thatch ; 

Gently  tapping  the  window  panes, 

Reeling  the  fence  with  its  long  white  skeins ; 

Curb  and  wood-pile,  sled  and  cart, 

Have  vanished  all  by  its  magic  art ; 

Playing  hide  in  a  game  below, 

Under  the  hills  of  the  beautiful  snow ! 

Beautiful  snow,  by  God  refined — 
A  great  white  thought  from  the  fount  Divine  I 
Saying  to  every  child  of  sin, 
Open  your  hearts  and  take  me  in  ! 
Sallying,  dallying,  floating  around 
Through  every  street  in  the  busy  town ; 
Covering  the  graves  of  the  loved  and  lost, 
Hanging  a  wreath  on  the  arms  of  the  cross ; 
Emblems  ot'  purity,  guarding  below 
The  sleepers  under  the  beautiful  snow  ! 

Once  I  was  pure,  like  the  beautiful  snow ; 
Once  the  lilies  would  bud  and  blow, 
Filling  my  soul  with  a  fragrance  sweet, 
Bowing  my  heart  at  my  Saviour's  feet : 
Trusting  I  went  to  my  Father  in  prayer, 
Wanting  a  comforter — finding  it  there. 
Now  I  am  living  in  sorrow  and  strife, 
Feeding  my  soul  on  the  follies  of  life — 
Faithless  and  cheerless,  I  wander  alone, 
Trusting  to  earth  for  a  heavenly  home  ! 
Oh,  that  the  lilies  would  bud  and  blow ; 
That  I  was  as  pure  as  the  beautiful  snow ! 


TO   MY   FRIEND  J.    P.  137 


TO    MY    FRIEND    J.    P. 

Come  sit  with  me,  my  gentle  friend* 

Where  grows  the  daisied  sod ; 
Where  love  and  truth  together  blend 

Among  the  works  of  God ! 
'Tis  here  the  mock-thrush  chants  her  lay 

From  dewy  morn  till  even, 
As  if  she  drew  her  music  from 

The  golden  harps  in  heaven  ! 

Come  sit  with  me,  where  music  floats, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  trees, 
And  listen  to  the  merry  notes 

Borne  onward  by  the  breeze ; 
Sweet  little  messengers  of  love, 

They  wear  no  gloomy  shrouds, 
But  strive  to  lead  our  thoughts  above, 

Like  angels  in  the  clouds. 

Come  sit  with  me  beneath  the  shade, 

Where  flowerets,  pure  and  meek, 
Start  from  their  green  and  mossy  bed 

The  morning  light  to  greet ; 
And  when  comes  down  the  sable  night, 

They  close  their  sparkling  eyes, 
As  if  to  woo  the  gems  of  light 

That  twinkle  in  the  skies. 
12* 


138  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

They  bloom  in  every  sunny  spot, 

And  where  the  shadows  tread ; 
They  dot,  like  stars,  the  sacred  turf 

"  Above  the  sleeping  dead ! " 
They  throw  a  sunbeam  o'er  our  way, 

And  bid  us  bloom  and  shine, 
And  seek  true  wisdom  while  we  may 

In  Summer's  golden  prime. 


THE  SOI/DIER-BOY   OF  GETTYSBURG.  139 


THE    SOLDIER-BOY    OF    GETTYSBURG. 

The  cannon's  mouth  had  ceased  to  hurl 

Its  deadly  missiles  through  the  air ; 
From  fiery  lips  no  longer  curled 

The  smoky  clouds  of  dark  despair ; 
And  not  a  sound  the  silence  broke, 

Save  now  and  then  a  moan  was  heard 
Beneath  some  hedge  or  shattered  oak, 

Upon  the  fields  of  Gettysburg. 

A  soldier-boy — an  only  son — 

With  matted  locks  and  faltering  breath, 
Lay  resting  on  his  sword  and  gun, 

Fast  sinking  in  the  arms  of  death. 
He  raised  his  hand  and  brushed  a  tear : 

"  Take  home,"  said  he,  "  one  little  word— 
For  one  I  love  now  waits  to  hear 

The  latest  news  from  Gettysburg. 

'Tis  of  my  mother  I  would  speak, 

For  great  I  know  her  grief  will  be ; 
And  tears  will  wet  her  faded  cheek, 

When  she  shall  hear  again  from  me. 
For  I  am  all  she  has  to  love — 

My  father's  voice  no  more  is  heard ; 
From  Antietam  he  went  above, 

And  I  shall  go  from  Gettysburg. 


140  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

Take  home  to  her  my  sword  and  gun — 

Mementos  of  my  early  call — 
And  hang  them  where  the  setting  sun 

Shines  red  upon  the  cottage  Avail. 
'Tis  all  I  have  I  can  bequeath — 

I've  served  them  well  by  deed  and  word, 
Ere  I  was  called  to  sleep  beneath 

The  blood-stained  soil  of  Gettysburg. 

Tell  her  I've  tried  to  do  the  right, 

And  be  to  all  a  friend  and  brother ; 
That  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight 

I  often  thought  of  home  and  mother." 
The  sun  had  kissed  the  mountain-tips — 

One  struggle  more  his  bosom  stirred, 
And  with  her  name  upon  his  lips, 

He  fell  asleep  at  Gettysburg. 

They  gathered  round  the  youthful  brave, 

The  drum-beat  echoed  through  the  dell — 
They  laid  him  in  his  new-made  grave, 

Beneath  the  tree  by  which  he  fell ; 
And  on  its  bark,  in  letters  deep, 

They  cut  his  name  with  his  own  sword, 
And  left  him  in  his  dreamless  sleep — 

The  soldier-boy  of  Gettysburg. 


HONEST  AND   MERRY.  141 


HONEST   AND    MERRY. 

'Tis  well  to  have  a  ten-pound  note 

At  interest  on  demand ; 
'Tis  well  to  own  some  stock  in  trade 

If  honestly  you  can. 
'Tis  well  to  count  one's  Mends  among 

The  mighty  and  the  small, 
But  a  merry,  loving,  honest  heart, 

Is  better  than  them  all ! 

'  Tis  well  to  have  a  mansion  made 

Of  granite,  brick  or  wood ; 
'  Tis  well  to  have  one's  table  spread 

With  dainties  from  abroad ; 
But  should  the  needy  chance  to  call, 

Oh,  bid  them  long  remain, 
For  a  merry,  loving,  honest  heart, 

Should  never  know  a  stain. 

The  rich  man  has  his  bags  of  gold, 

And  acres  without  number ; 
But  I  would  not  give  my  merry  heart 

For  all  his  wealth  and  plunder ; 
For  when  Death  robs  him  of  his  wealth, 

Oh,  how  he'll  shake  and  shiver, 
While  I  shall  take  my  merry  heart 

With  me  across  the  river ! 


142  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


FREDDY  WALLACE. 

His  little  soul,  so  tired  of  earth, 

He  could  no  longer  stay ; 
Loved  voices  from  the  spirit  land 

Were  calling  him  away. 
Then  leaning  on  an  angel  breast, 

He  closed  his  sparkling  eyes, 
Crossed  o'er  the  stream,  and  went  to  dwell 

With  seraphs  in  the  skies. 

Oh,  could  you  see  the  spirit  bands 

Of  loved  ones  gone  before, 
Extending  out  their  waiting  hands 

To  welcome  him  on  shore — 
You  would  not,  could  not  wish  him  back, 

Your  tears  would  cease  to  flow, 
As  through  the  meadows  soft  and  green, 

Clasped  hand  in  hand  they  go. 


LINES.  143 


LINES, 

Upon  the  death  of  ANNIE  LEWIS,  daughter  of  WARREN  N.  and 
KOXANNA  EVERSON,  of  Kingston. 


She  has  gone  up  to  God,  in  life's  early  morning, 
Ere  sin  cast  a  shadow  to  darken  the  way ; 

When  her  visions  of  hope  in  the  future  were  dawning, 
And  health  bloomed  on  her  cheek  like  the  blossoms  of 
May. 

How  sweetly  she  looked  in  her  own  cottage  dress, 
As  we  laid  her  away  near  the  "  Evergreen  "  bowers, 

Like  a  rustic  young  maiden  that  had  laid  down  to  rest 
At  the  close  of  the  day,  after  gleaning  for  flowers  ! 

She  is  now  in  that  home  where  no  sin  nor  temptation 
Can  lead  her  young  feet  from  the  path  they  should 
tread ; 

While  her  soul  shall  expand  by  the  law  of  progression, 
And  forever  by  ministering  angels  be  led. 

How  consoling  the  thought!     (Though  it  be  not  our 
choice 

That  she  should  go  thus  in  the  morn  of  her  youth ;) 
She  is  now  where  the  angels  forever  rejoice, 

In  the  sunlight  of  harmony,  purity,  truth. 


144  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

And  will  she  forget  her  dear  father  and  mother, 
In  that  land  where  the  flowers  of  affection  shall  grow ! 

And  have  no  more  love  for  that  dear  little  brother, 
As  they  mourn  for  her  presence  while  waiting  below  ? 

No ;  but  often  methinks  in  the  future  before  us, 
While  singing  the  songs  that  she  sang  with  you  here ; 

She  will  come  down  from  Heaven  and  join  in  the  chorus, 
And  lead  you  through  faith  to  her  home  in  the  sphere  ! 

She  has  gone  up  to  God  in  life's  early  morning, 
Ere  sin  cast  a  shadow  to  darken  the  way ; 

And  oh,  may  you  feel  in  the  midst  of  your  sorrow, 
It  is  the  prettiest  time  you  could  lay  her  away. 


CINNAMON  ROSES.  145 


CINNAMON   ROSES. 

• 
Many  miles  away,  in  a  sunny  glade, 

Far  off  from  the  sounding  sea, 
There  lived  a  little  orphan  maid, 

To  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 
The  mountains  with  their  giant  arms 

That  little  cot  encloses, 
Where  all  around  its  rustic  porch, 

She  twines  the  Cinnamon  Roses. 

I  mind  me  of  the  time  agone, 

When  by  the  mossy  mill, 
We  laid  our  plans,  which  then  we  thought 

In  future  to  fulfill. 
It  was  there  that  last  we  parted, 

(But  we  did  not  know  it  then,) 
And  kissed  each  other  through  our  tears, 

Like  roses  in  the  rain. 

They  told  me  death  was  gathering  flowers 

To  deck  the  Heavenly  shrine, 
But  I  never  thought  he  would  be  so  rude 

As  to  fall  in  love  with  mine  ; 
That  when  old  Wintei*'s  silvery  locks 

In  Spring's  soft  arms  reposes, 
She  would  twine  no  more  for  my  young  brow, 
In  wreaths  the  Cinnamon  Roses. 
13 


146  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

Long  years  I've  wandered  all  alone, 

Through  forest  dark  and  dim, 
And  my  light,  joyous  songs,  have  now 

Become  a  plaintive  hymn ; 
For  a  breeze  came  out  of  the  sky  one  day, 

To  play  among  the  posies, 
And  blew  the  soul  of  my  darling  away 

With  the  leaves  of  the  Cinnamon  Roses ! 

And  then  they  would  not  le^me  have 

My  loved  one  any  more, 
But  buried  her  beneath  the  trees, 

Upon  the  river's  shore. 
No  marble  marks  the  quiet  spot 

Where  her  loved  form  reposes, 
But  by  her  side  the  flowers  bloom — 

We  call  them  Cinnamon  Roses. 

The  tears  are  running  down  my  cheek, 

Just  like  the  summer  rain ; 
I  never  knew  such  grief  before, — 

I  never  can  again. 
And  all  I  ask  of  this  great  world, 

Is,  when  my  journey  closes, 
For  them  to  lay  me  by  her  side, 

Beneath  the  Cinnamon  Roses. 


LETTER  NUMBER  SIX.  147 


LETTER    NUMBER    SIX. 

January  10th. — "And  do  you  really  want  me  to  go 
home  with  you  and  spend  the  night  ?  " 

'•  Yes,  William,  I  certainly  do,"  said  I. 

The  speaker  was  none  other  than  Bill  Rivers,  the 
notorious  rowdy,  so  called.  We  had  met  him  at  the 
little  Methodist  prayer  meeting,  and  knowing  him  to  be 
poor  and  friendless,  but  possessing  a  kind,  generous 
heart,  I  invited  him  home  with  me,  that  I  might  once 
touch  the  harp-strings  of  his  soul,  that  had  always  dis- 
coursed to  me  such  sweet  music  whenever  I  had  a 
chance  to  nestle  him  in  my  affections ;  so  taking  him  by 
the  arm,  we  chatted  merrily  homeward. 

"  And  now,  Benja,  sit  down  and  tell  me  what  you 
have  all  these  ornaments  and  pictures  here  in  your 
chamber  for  ?  I  thought  these  kind  of  things  belonged 
to  the  parlor." 

"So  they  do,"  I  replied,  "when  they  are  kept  for 
exhibition ;  but  I  keep  them  because  they  help  me  to  be 
good;  being  elements  of  truth  and  purity,  they  guard 
me  against  evil  thoughts,  and  help  to  strengthen  my 
good  resolutions.  The  little  figure  in  the  attitude  of 
prayer  reminds  me  of  the  young  child  Samuel,  putting  his 
trust  in  the  Infinite  Father,  and  receiving  the  blessing. 
The  cross  by  the  little  window  speaks  to  me  of  one  who 
gave  up  His  life  as  a  sacrifice  for  truth  and  goodness ; 
while  the  sweet  face  peeping  out  so  lovingly  from  the 


148  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

wreath  of  dried  grasses,  brings  to  mind  a  gentle  spirit- 
friend  that  is  waiting  for  me  in  the  home  up  yonder." 

"  This,"  said  I,  "is  my  sanctuary;  here  is  where  I 
come  to  look  over  my  little  life-bundle  that  I  have  car- 
ried through  the  day ;  and,  if  I  have  done  wrong,  these 
•silent  preachers  announce  the  fact ;  but  being  represent- 
atives of  Love  and  Charity,  they  condemn  me  not,  but 
help  me  to  make  out  a  better  programme  for  the  morrow." 

I  saw  the  tears  glistening  in  his  eyes,  and  looking  up, 
he  replied : 

"You  ought  to  be  very  good,  Benja,  for  you  have 
everything  to  make  you  so,  and  can  walk  in  the  sunlight 
of  respectability ;  while  I  have  everything  to  make  me 
wicked  and  reckless,  consequently  I  am  an  outcast  and  a 
rowdy !  " 

I  felt  the  truth  of  his  remark,  and  putting  my  arm 
around  his  neck,  I  said : 

"In  the  sight  of  God  and  the  angels  there  is  not  so 
much  difference,  perhaps,  as  men  think ;  for  goodness  is 
measured  by  temptations  resisted.  I  have  ever  been 
surrounded  by  the  atmosphere  of  love,  with  friends  ever 
ready  to  prop  my  weakness ;  therefore  I  have  made  but 
few  sacrifices,  through  which  cometh  Heaven's  richest 
rewards ;  while  your  surroundings  have  caused  you  to 
drink  from  the  cup  of  vice  and  degradation,  and  you 
have  fallen.  But  the  divine  spark  is  not  all  extinguished ; 
there  is  enough  left  to  make  you  a  good  man,  and  a 
respectable  citizen.  The  echo  in  your  own  soul  tells 
you  this.  Then  make  one  more  resolve  to  live  aright 
and  in  harmony  with  Nature  ;  and  though  men  pass  you 
by  on  the  other  side,  the  angel  of  Hope,  that  ever  stands 
near  thee,  will  touch  the  strings  of  her  golden  harp,  and 
its  music  shall  warm  up  thy  soul  into  newer  life  and 
higher  beauty ;  and  that  which  has  caused  you  so  much 
misery  and  sorrow,  may  yet  become  a  ladder  of  wisdom, 
whereon  thy  spirit  shall  ascend  heavenward  ! " 


LETTER  NUMBER  SIX.  149 

"  I  know  it,"  he  replied,  "  and  have  often  wished  that  I 
could  do  better ;  but  I  have  no  friends  except  those  of 
my  kind — society  is  against  me,  and  respectable  people 
don't  like  to  be  seen  in  my  company.  Oh,  if  I  only  had 
some  one  to  love  and  care  for  me  !  " 

Poor  brother !  hew  I  wanted  to  warm  him  in  my  heart, 
as  we  wept  there  together  over  the  miseries  that  weighed 
so  heavily  upon  us. 

Since  that  memorable  day  I  have  gone  down  step  by 
step  into  the  heart  of  my  neighbor,  Deacon  Joel ;  and 
the  further  I  reach  down,  the  more  of  the  naughty  spirit 
I  find ;  while  the  further  I  reach  down  into  the  heart  of 
Bill  Rivers,  the  rowdy,  the  more  I  find  that  is  com- 
mendable ! 

Alas,  for  the  wrong  that  society  is  doing  to  human 
hearts!  With  her  unjust  laws  and  false  customs — with 
her  perverted  religion  and  cold  charity — she  brands  the 
poor  unfortunate  sinner  with  the  name  criminal,  and  shuts 
him  up  in  her  penitentiaries ;  while  to  the  fashionable 
libertine  and  wine-bibber,  that  dresses  in  broadcloth  and 
fine  linen,  she  pays  a  thousand  pounds  yearly  to  sit  in 
her  council  chambers  and  halls  of  legislation. 

Oh,  ye  wicked  extortioners,  who  crush  your  fallen 
brothers  with  your  iron  hand !  remember  the  end  is  not 
yet ;  for  there  is  a  little  angel  of  Beauty  dwelling  down 
deep  in  the  soul-chambers  of  those  poor  unfortunate 
ones ;  and  when  the  kingdom  of  God  shall  come  on 
earth,  as  it  is  in  Heaven,  their  mission  may  be  to  clear 
away  the  poisonous  weeds  from  your  heart-gardens,  to 
warm  up  the  cold,  clayey  soil  with  the  dewdrops  of 
affection,  and  plant  morning  glory  seeds  ! 
13* 


150  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


THE  "GIPSEY    GIRL'S"  RESOLVE. 

I  will  live  an  old  maid,  if  I  cannot  find 
A  man  in  the  universe  near  to  my  mind ; 
For  'tis  wiser  by  far  to  be  single  and  free, 
Than  united,  'when  the  heart  has  no  sympathy. 

So  my  love  in  the  depths  of  my  heart  I  will  hide, 
Till  I  learn  if  on  earth  my  mate  doth  abide  ; 
If  he  knows  I  am  searching  the  world  o'er  and  o'er, 
He  will  make  his  appearance — of  that  I  am  sure  ! 

His  hair  should  be  wavy,  and  dark  in  its  hue, 
With  eyes — I  should  place  the  black  before  blue, 
With  intellect's  fire  burning  lustrous  and  bright, 
In  love's  adoration,  but  soft  in  their  light. 

A  generous  heart,  true,  loving  and  warm, 
And  a  noble  soul  added  to  a  manly  form  ; 
Ambition  and  industry — all  these  combined, 
Makes  a  very  good  man — one  that  suits  Avell  my  mind. 

I  shall  be  an  old  maid,  I'm  really  in  fear, 

If,  sometime  or  other,  he  does  not  appear ; 

If  he's  travelling  in  France,  that  famed  land  of  song, 

He  had  better  be  quick,  and  come  right  along. 


THE   GIPSEY   GIRL'S   RESOLVE.  151 

Perhaps  he  is  delving  for  hard,  shining  ore, 
Far  away  on  the  dark  Sacramento's  wild  shore ; 
But  I'll  not  pine  in  sadness,  where'er  he  may  be, 
For  I  know  he  is  certainly  looking  for  me  ! 

In  the  course  of  long  time,  I  MAY  meet  my  love, 
And  tell  him  how  constant  and  true  I  will  prove  ; 
Then  together  we'll  journey  the  down-hill  of  life, 
He,  a  husband  so  kind :  I,  a  dutiful  wife. 


152  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


TO    THE    "GIPSEY    GIRL." 


What !  live  an  old  maid  all  the  days  of  your  life, 
When  your  dear  "  Cousin  Benja"  's  in  search  of  a  wife, 
And  hide  all  your  love  in  the  depths  of  your  heart, 
When  so  many  stand  waiting  to  share  it  in  part  ? 

Ah,  this  is  not  right ;  now  just  listen  to  me, 
For  there's  many  good  fishes  still  swimming  the  sea ; 
And  there's  many  a  heart,  that's  both  loving  and  good, 
That  a  "  Gipsey  "  could  find,  if  she'd  search  in  the  wood  ! 

I  have  one  in  my  keeping — one  that  never  betrayed — 
That  I'd  like  to  present  to  some  nice  little  maid, 
If  I  only  could  find  one,  congenial  and  true — 
Who  knows,  little  Gipsey,  but  'twould  answer  for  you  ? 

Perhaps  a  description  you'd  like  of  its  "  case," 
To  know  if  its  " fastenings"  will  ever  deface, 
Ere  you  talk  of  proposals  or  offer  your  hand, 
So  I'll  give  a  description,  as  near  as  I  can. 

My  hair  is  both  wavy  and  dark  in  its  hue ; 

My  eyes  are  not  black,  but  are  shaded  with  blue ; 

The  question  on  intellect  I'll  lay  on  the  shelf, 

In  hopes  that  sometime  you'll  decide  for  yourself! 


TO  THE   GIPSEY  GIRL.  153 

My  taste  for  refinements  is  very  acute — 
I  never  like  those  that  belong  to  the  brute  ; 
Think  we'd  better  true  lessons  in  wisdom  pursue, 
And  with  snuff  and  tobacco  have  nothing  to  do. 

The  beauties  of  nature  I  prefer  before  art, 

While  the  day-book  and  ledger  ne'er  entered  my  heart ; 

But  often  have  pictured  the  comfort  I'd  take 

With  a  wife  in  a  cottage  near  the  side  of  a  lake. 

Had  I  known  you'd  been  seeking  the  world  o'er  and  o'er 
In  search  of  a  mate,  I'd  have  written  before  ; 
But  enough  has  been  said  as  a  hint,  I  should  guess, 
That  SOMEBODY'S  waiting  for  another's  address  ! 


154  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


THE    FIRST    DEATH    OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 

TO  SISTER  JULIA. 

There  never  came  a  brighter  morn, 

From  o'er  the  distant  sea ; 
The  birds  ne'er  sang  a  sweeter  song, 

From  off  the  old  elm  tree, 
Than  when  the  angels  left  their  bowers, 

To  hail  a  spirit  birth, 
And  twine  a  spiral  wreath  of  flowers 

From  Heaven  down  to  earth. 

We  watched  with  sister  through  the  night, 

Her  breathings  faint  and  low ; 
For  when  the  stars  had  veiled  their  light, 

We  knew  that  she  must  go. 
Oh  !  how  our  hearts  did  bow  with  grief, 

When  came  that  long-drawn  sigh — 
I'm  weeping  now  to  think  of  it, 

That  sad  and  last  "  good  bye  !  " 

How  quiet  was  the  household  then, 

How  silent  every  tread  ; 
How  kind  and  gentle  were  our  hearts, 

When  sister  dear  was  dead ! 
And  if  ere  we  spoke  an  angry  word, 

That  caused  a  bitter  tear, 
We  did  not  care  to  do  so  then, 

The  angels  were  so  near. 


THE  FIRST  DEATH  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.  155 

Nor  did  we  like  to  see  the  sun 

Across  the  carpet  play ; 
Or  basking  in  the  sparkling  light 

Of  colors  bright  and  gay ; 
And  so  we  put  the  curtains  down, 

To  hide  the  rosy  hours ; 
For  who  could  love  the  sunlight  then, 

With  hearts  so  sad  as  ours  ? 

And  oft  Td  go  to  mother's  room, 

When  no  one  else  was  nigh ; 
To  look  once  more  on  that  pale  face, 

Then  turn  away  and  cry. 
But  now,  doAvn  by  the  greenwood  dell, 

The  little  stars  at  even 
Can  guard  the  form  we  loved  so  well — 

But  sister's  gone  to  Heaven  ! 

I  wonder  when  I  go  to  sleep, 

To  wake  on  earth  no  more, 
If  sister  will  not  be  the  first 

To  welcome  me  on  shore  ? 
Oh,  yes,  methinks  I  see  her  now, 

That  little  cherub  one  ; 
She's  waiting  on  the  spirit  shore, 

And  beck'ning  me  to  come  ! 


156  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


OBITUARY. 

Died  in  Kingston,  March  20th,  1861,  of  consumption,  GEORGE  E.  LUCAS  ; 
aged  34  years,  11  months. 

The  sun  shone  bright  in  the  morning  sky, 
They  had  gathered  around  to  see  him  die  ; 
The  earth  was  dressed  in  a  snowy  wreath, 
When  the  angel  came  to  his  soul's  relief, 
And  gently  knocked  at  the  outer  door, 
And  summoned  him  home  to  the  golden  shore  ! 

There  was  grief  on  earth,  there  were  weeping  eyes, 

But  a  song  rang  out  from  the  upper  skies ; 

As  he  met  the  loved  of  his  early  years  ; 

As  she  bathed  him  afresh  with  her  heavenly  tears, 

And  led  him  away — that  youthful  wife, 

To  rest  on  the  shore  of  eternal  life  ! 

I  know  it  was  sad  to  be  called  to  part, 
And  we  turn  away  with  a  broken  heart, 
When  the  boatman's  sail  appears  in  view, 
And  we  hear  the  dash  of  his  white  canoe, 
As  he  comes  to  take  some  loved  one  home  ; 
Ah  !  'tis  hard  to  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !  " 

But  'tis  sweet  to  know  that  they  love  to  wait, 
On  the  other  side  of  the  pearly  gate  ; 
That  oft  from  their  heavenly  homes  above, 
They  breath  some  tender  words  of  love, 
To  cheer  us  on  through  the  misty  tide, 
Till  we  meet  them  a^ain  on  the  other  side. 


TO  THE  TREES.  157 


TO   THE   TREES. 

Tell  me,  ye  waving  trees  of  green, 

That  in  the  breezes  blow ; 
Is  there  another  land  unseen 

By  mortals  here  below  ? 

Is  there  a  God  that  rules  all  things, 

In  earth,  in  air  and  sky ; 
Or  is  it  by  some  natural  law, 

You  wave  your  heads  on  high  ? 

Is  there  a  land  where  spirits  dwell 
When  from  our  sight  they  go  ? 

Bow  down  your  heads  to  me  and  tell 
If  of  thfs  land  you  know  ! 

Do  they  come  to  us  unseen, 
And  by  some  magic  power 

Impress  us  like  some  fairy  dream 
Of  Heaven's  blissful  shore  ? 

Oh  yes  !  oh !  yes  I  see  them  now, 
My  eyes  cannot  deceive  me ; 

They  come  and  kiss  my  weary  brow, 
With  open  arms  receive  me  ! 

They  whisper,  "  Faint  not  by  the  way, 
Thy  spirit  shall  grow  stronger : 

There  shines  for  thee  a  brighter  day, 
Dear  brother,  doubt  no  longer." 
14 


158  POEMS    AND    LETTERS. 


THE   OLD   HOMESTEAD. 

Have  you  forgotten,  Jeremy, 

The  homestead  of  our  youth, 
With  the  gable  looking  eastward, 

And  the  scuttle  in  the  roof? 
The  little  tea-room  window, 

With  the  hop-vine  running  o'er, 
The  old  spout  hanging  from  the  eaves, 

The  sage-bed  by  the  door, 
Where  the  early  sun  came  laughing  in, 

And  lay  upon  the  floor  ? 

Have  you  forgot  the  chamber 

Where  first  the  morning  sMone, 
With  the  quaint,  old-fashioned  furniture, 

We  used  to  call  our  own  ? 
The  great  beam  running  overhead, 

Where  once  we  had  a  swing? 
The  door  with  the  wooden  latch, 

That  opened  with  a  string, 
And  the  closet  by  the  chimney, 

Where  the  cricket  used  to  sing  ? 

And  do  you  not  remember 

Our  little  garden  there  ? 
The  rose-bush  and  the  marigolds 

We  tended  with  such  care  ? 
The  orchard  and  the  clover  fields, 


THE   OLD    HOMESTEAD.  159 

Where  once  we  used  to  play, 
And  drive  ourselves  to  "  London  Town  " 

In  grandfather's  old  "  shay," 
Or  help  the  boys  in  summer-tiine 

To  gather  hi  the  hay  ? 

And  when  the  summer  days  had  passed, 

What  joys  we  used  to  find 
In  gathering  up  the  mellow  fruits 

She  kindly  left  behind. 
And  then  the  harvesting,  you  know — 

What  merry  times  were  these  ; 
The  husking  of  the  golden  corn, 

The  threshing  of  the  sheaves, 
The  hunting  of  the  hazel-nuts 

Among  the  autumn  leaves. 

And  the  old  folks  that  we  used  to  love — 

I'm  thinking  of  them  now ; 
What  happy  smiles  of  Paradise 

Lit  up  their  time-worn  brow. 
A  goodly  life  they  lived  on  earth, 

But  when  the  reapers  come 
They  gathered  up  their  harvest-sheaves, 

And  bore  them  safely  home, 
And  left  us  waiting  on  the  shore, 

Weeping,  and  alone. 


160  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


TO,— I    KNOW   WHO. 

Oh,  the  vandals  are  cutting  that  beautiful  grove, 

That  grew  by  the  cot  of  my  mother ; 
Where  often  with  Mends  in  the  twilight  I've  roved, 

And  gathered  wild  flowers  with  each  other ; 
But  no  more  will  the  lark  tell  the  coming  of  day, 

No  more  will  sweet  echoes  resound, 
No  more  can  we  romp  when  the  twilight  is  gray, 

For  the  trees  are  all  cut  to  the  ground  ! 

There  the  silvery  birch  waved  in  the  eve's  gentle  light 

That  brilliantly  curtailed  the  sky ; 
And  the  owlet  peeped  forth  in  the  stillness  of  night, 

When  he  thought  that  no  danger  was  nigh. 
There  the  crystal  fount  played,  and  the  white  pebbles 
glanced, 

As  the  little  streams  over  them  run, 
And  the  winds  piped  a  song  for  the  Fairies  to  dance, 

Till  the  lark  bid  them  hie  from  the  sun. 

t 

And  there  was  the  brook  that  we  called  "  Shady  Blue," 

Where  the  speckled  trout  lived  at  their  ease  ; 
There  the  white  orchis   bloomed,  and  the  Indian-pink 
grew, 

And  the  birds  sang  their  songs  in  the  trees  ; 
The  brook  is  still  there,  but  the  trout  gone  away, 

And  your  bosom  with  sadness  will  fill, 
When  I  tell  you  our  "  Bridge  "  has  begun  to  decay, 

And  the  oaks  have  been  carted  to  mill. 


TO — I  KNOW  WHO.  161 

And  don't  you  remember  the  day  we  went  Maying, 

When  I  was  so  dull  and  so  stupid, 
That  I  thought  little  boys  in  the  "  Silver  Lake  "  playing, 

Were  water-nymphs  sporting  with  Cupid  ? 
And  have  you  forgot,  ere  we  finished  our  romp, 

That  we  sat  on  the  wall — you  and  me — 
To  hear  the  owl  hoot  in  the  "  Blackwater  "  swamp, 

And  the  poppin-jay  tap  on  the  tree  ? 
14* 


162  POEMS  AND  LETTERS, 


SLANDER. 

RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED  TO  WHOM  IT    MAY  CONCERN. 

Talk  on,  if  you  like,  do  you  think  that  I  care 
For  the  slander  poured  forth  from  your  venomous 
tongue  ? 

No  !  I've  heard  of  such  scandal  polluting  the  air, 
Ever  since  the  first  morn  of  existence  begun  ! 

So  I  made  me  a  shield  from  the  metal  of  truth, 
And  I  fear  not  its  fangs,  and  I  feel  not  its  thorn, 

For  slander,  like  chickens,  will  come  home  to  roost ; 
Then  beware  of  the  night  that  will  bring  them  along. 

Ah !  little  ye  know,  ye  venders  of  fun, 

How  much  of  your  own  real  heart  you  disclose, — 

Let  me  tell  you  a  mirror  reflects  number  one ; 

And  the  stream  has  a  taste  from  the  fountain  it  flows. 

Do  you  measure  for  others  by  your  own  narrow  soul  ? 

Do  you  judge  by  yourself — then  perhaps  it  is  well ; 
But  just  leave  me  room  for  my  carriage  to  roll, 

And  the  freight  that  I  carry  the  future  shall  tell. 

Better  weed  out  your  own  path,  and  make  no  delay, 
And  grow  you  some  mint  and  some  thyme  of  your 
own — 

People  never  steal  from  gardens  away, 
If  they  have  it  as  good  in  their  gardens  at  home. 


SLANDER.  163 

Then  shoot  your  barbed  arrows  of  slander  and  hate, 
And  little  care  I  for  the  harm  they  can  do ; 

I  shall  jog  on  my  journey  and  pass  through  the  gate, 
With  a  conscience  that's  clear,  to  a  God  that  is  true. 


144  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


LINES. 

"  He's  nothing  but  an  Irishman," 

Methinks  I  heard  you  say, 
When  asked  what  gentleman  was  that 

With  me  the  other  day. 
"  He's  nothing  but  an  Irishman," 

Ah !  that  is  veiy  true ; 
And  much,  much  more  respectable, 

Than  the  one  I'm  writing  to. 

What  though  he  wears  a  homespun  suit, 

Best  suited  to  his  toil  ? 
What  if  his  hands  are  little  tanned  ? 

He  cultivates  the  soil. 
What  though  he  was  not  Yankee-born  ? 

I'm  sure  that's  no  mishap ; 
If  right  prevails,  and  not  the  wrong, 

He's  none  the  worse  for  that. 

True  worth  is  not  a  thing  of  dress, 

Of  wealth  or  classic  lore ; 
Nor  is  it  to  preach  temperance, 

And  drink  behind  the  door. 
So  take  a  lesson  from  this  part, 

And  go  and  sin  no  more. 


TO   HATTIE  HATEFUL.  165 


TO    HATTIE    HATEFUL.* 

'Tis  the  close  of  day,  and  the  lamps  of  light 

Are  hung  on  the  silvery  wings  of  night ; 

The  moon  looks  forth  with  a  ray  of  love, 

Like  the  smiles  of  angels  from  clouds  above, 

Casting  her  light  o'er  the  earth  and  sea — 

And  I'm  thinking,  Dear  Hattie,  how  Hateful  you  be ! 

The  birds  have  left  for  congenial  skies, 

Where  the  west  wind  breathes  its  softest  sighs ; 

No  longer  we  hear  their  music  sweet, 

Where  wild-flowers  bloomed  in  the  valley  deep ; 

No  chirping  young  is  heard  in  the  tree — 

Still  I'm  thinking,  Dear  Hattie,  how  Hateful  you  be  ! 

The  trees  are  dress'd  in  the  old  pine  grove, 

In  a  mantle  of  white  that  the  storm-king  wove ; 

The  flowers  are  clasped  in  the  earth's  embrace, 

And  the  fire-bug's  gone  to  his  hiding-place. 

No  longer  the  little  stream  sings  by  the  lea — 

Still  I'm  thinking,  Dear  Hatttie,  how  Hateful  you  be ! 

*  NOTE.— "Written  on  reading  a  piece  in  a  paper  signed  HATTIE  HATEFUL. 


166  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


TO    COUSIN   BENJA. 

BY  HATTIE  HATEFUL. 

The  soft  west-wind  in  its  careless  play, 

Is  sighing  and  whispering,  as  if  to  say, 

Come  listen  to  me,  little  maiden  fair, 

With  dark  blue  eyes  and  auburn  hair, 

I've  a  story  to  whisper,  (don't  think  me  free,) 

'Tis  this :  Cousin  Benja  is  thinking  of  thee. 

Like  the  welcome  voice  of  a  long-lost  friend, 
Is  the  whispered  story,  the  wind  doth  send 
To  me  as  I  walk  in  the  grove  alone, 
And  list  to  the  soft  west  wind's  low  tone, 
As  it  floats  to  my  ear  so  careless  and  free, 
Little  Hattie,  Cousin  Benja  is  thinking  of  thee. 

I  will  stop  the  breeze,  and  question  it  well, 
And  hear  all  the  stoiy  it  has  to  tell ; 
Now,  zephyr,  with  all  your  whispering  free, 
Will  you  tell  me  all  Benja  thinks  of  me  ? 
Oh  yes  !  little  maiden,  with  heart  so  free, 
He  is  only  thinking  "  how  hateful  you  be  ! " 

Oh  soft  west- wind,  will  you  carry  to  him, 
This  message,  while  yet  my  eye  is  dim, 
With  the  tear  that  will  come  as  the  story  I  hear- 
'Tis  this,  "  Cousin  Benja  "  to  Hattie  so  dear, 
If  you  are  still  thinking  how  hateful  I  be, 
Remember,  Pm  thinking  now  ever  of  thee. 


TO  COUSIN  BENJA.  167 

Oh  why  did  you  come,  west-wind,  to  me, 

To  steal  the  heart  of  a  maiden  free  ? 

I  fear  you  will  waft  it  to  cousin  Ben, 

As  you  gently  float  to  him  again ; 

Ah !  the  west- wind  sighs  as  it  floats  o'er  the  lea, 

He  is  only  thinking  "  how  hateful  you  be ! " 


168  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


TO    HATTIE    HATEFUL. 

Your  little  zephyr  came  to  me  from  o'er  the  western  hills, 
As  merry  as  a  humming  bee,  as  sparkling  as  the  rills ; 
It  gently  fanned  my  heated    brow,  then  said  "Dear 

Cousin  Ben, 
I  have  a  little  song  to  sing,  from  Hattie  Hateful* s  pen." 

Come  in,  come  in,  my  little  breeze,  I'll  list  to  every  word ; 
For  as  the  little  waif  from  me,  an  answering  chord  hath 

stirred, 
I  query  much  to  catch  the  notes  that  tremble  o'er  the 

wire — 
But  wait,  methinks  I  find  a  want  of  harmony  somewhere. 

For  when  you  say,  you  told  her  all,  methinks  you  played 

the  spy ; 
Else  what  should  cause  that  tear  to  dim  the  brightness 

of  her  eye ; 
Go  back  again,  you  little  rogue,  dispel  those  doubts  and 

fears, 
For  when  you  tell  her  all  I  think,  there  will  be  no  cause 

for  tears. 

Go  kiss  for  me  her  laughing  brow — go  whisper  in  her 

ear 

Some  little  tender  words,  alas  !  I  cannot  write  them  here  ; 
The   people's   ears   are  open   wide,   they  hear  strange 

things,  you  know, 
Then  mind  you  tell  my  whisperings  in  breathings  soft 

and  low. 


TO   HATTIE   HATEFUL.  169 

We  read  in  that  old  ancient  book,  once  handed  down 

from  Heaven, 
That  when  the  people  grew  estranged,  a  new  command 

was  given ; 
Then  when  its  genial  power  is  felt  through  our  benighted 

land, 
All  Hateful  things  will  prove  to  be  a  blessing  unto  man. 

Now  little  zephyr,  when  again  Miss  Haitie  questions  you, 
Tell  her  Tm  loyal  to  the  heart  for  union  with  the  true ; 
That  trustingly  I  work,  and  wait,  those  happy  days  to 

see, 
Hoping  some  Hateful  things  will  prove  a  blessing  unto 

me. 

Ah !  did  you  say  'tis  Leap  Year  now  ?  then  I  will  fold  my 

pages, 
Ere  I  should  trespass  on  the  rights  belonging  to  the 

ladies ; 
But  should  you  catch  another  song-  from  Hattie  Hateful 's 

pen, 
Then  plume  your  wings,  take  up  your  harp,  and  sing  to 

me  again. 


170  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


TO    COUSIN   BENJA. 

BY   HATTIE   HATEFUL. 

Dear  coz.,  our  little  zephyr  friend  has  now  returned  to 

me, 
I  knew  when  last  it  came  and  went,  'twould  come  again 

to  me; 
But  did  not  dream  that  Cousin  Ben  would  keep  it  there 

so  long, 
Although  I  knew  he'd   question  it,  of  Hattie  Hateful's 

song. 

I've  watched   so  long  its  glad  return,   it  was  almost 

despair, 

This  misery  of  hope  deferred,  this  waiting,  empty  air ; 
But  still  no  message  came  to  me,  no  word  from  Cousin 

Ben, 
I  almost  feared  the  little  breeze  would  ne'er  come  back 

again. 

But  at  the  last  sweet  sunset  hour,  I  heard  a  whispering 

low, 
A  kiss  so  light  pressed  on  my  brow — ne'er  kissed  before, 

you  knoic ; 
I  blushed,  and  to  the  saucy  breeze  I  said,  "Take  back 

your  kiss — 
If  ever  I  see  Cousin  Ben,  I'll  tell  him  all  of  this." 


TO   COUSIN  BENJA.  171 

The  little  zephyr  fluttered  near,  with  soft,  low  whispers 

then, 
Saying,  "Do  not  be  scornful,  miss,  I  came  for  Cousin 

Ben; 
He  sent  me  here  with  this,  and  many  a  tender  word  so 

true, 
And  told  me  not  to  tarry,  but  to  bring  them  all  to  you." 

Dear  Cousin  Ben,  I  treasure  well  each  tender  word, 

but  oh ! 
I  fear  the  little  breeze  has  told  me  more  than  I  had  ought 

to  know ; 

For  I'm  afraid  if  mamma  knew  all  that  you  say  to  me, 
She'd  scold  me,  tell  me  it  was  wrong,  and  all  of  that, 

you  see. 

You  tell  me  of  the  new  command  that  unto  us  was  given, 
The  best,  the  fairest  one  to  learn,  of  all  that  came  from 

Heaven ; 

Now  mamma  cannot  chide  for  that,  for  she  has  often  said. 
That  I  must  ever  do  just  what  I  in  the  Bible  read. 

You  told  me  that  "'twas  Leap  Year  now,"  so  I  will  take 

this  time, 
To   say — send  me  your  C.  D.  V.  and  I  will  send  you 

mine ; 
Exchange  those  tender  words  with  you,  and  every  kindly 

wish, 
And  sometime,  when  I  get  a  chance,  I'll  give  you  back 

your  kiss. 


172  POEMS  AND  LETTERS, 


TO    HATTIE    HATEFUL. 

'  Twas  merry  time,  the  village  clock  had  told  the  hour  of 

morn, 
The  dew  lay  on  the   hazel-bush,  and  on  the  flowering 

thorn; 
The  little  flower-buds  'neath  the  hedge,  half  hid  among 

the  leaves, 
Awoke  and  threw  their  night-caps  off,  and  danced  before 

the  breeze. 

Nature  was  dressed  in  rich  array,  and  in  her  merriest 

mood,   • 
So  I  drew  on  my  thinking-cap,  and  wandered  to  the 

wood; 
Then  sat  me  down  beneath  an  oak  that  grew  beside  the 

way, 
And  laid  my  head  upon  the  turf,  like  children  tired  of 

play. 

And  there  I  watched  the  fleecy  clouds,  through   shadows 

in  the  trees, 
And  once  I  heard  a  little  voice,  and  thought  it  was  the 

leaves ; 
When  turning  round  to  hear  them  sing,  dear  Hattie, 

there  I  see 
Our  little  darling  zephyr  friend,  with  messages  for  me  ! 


TO   HATTIE   HATEFUL.  173 

"Dear  Cousin  Ben,"  he  said  to  me,  in  accents   almost 

wild, 
"  I  come  to  light  your  countenance  with  Hattie  Hateful's 

smile ; 

You  know  that  little  kiss  you  sent,  I  laid  it  on  her  cheek, 
She  made  a  pout,  but  still  I  guess  she  thought  it  real 

sweet. 

"  Then  I  the  new  commandment  read,  and  sang  your 

little  song, 
I  cannot  tell  you  all  she  said,  it  will  take  me  quite  too 

long ; 
But  I  have  brought  an  answer  back,  Miss  Hattie  sent  to 

you, 
And  as  I  have  a  kite  to  fly,  I'll  bid  a  short  adieu." 

But  wait  a  moment,  little  friend,  while  I  commission 

thee —  . 
You  played  the  spy  for  Hattie  once,  now  play  the  spy  for 

me ; 
Go  learn — then  come  and  tell  me  all  about  this  little 

maid, 
And  you  shall  have  the  sweetest  harp  that  ever  a  zephyr 

played. 

To-morrow  morn  is  washing-day,  the   day  of  all  the 

seven, 
When  people   often   wander  from   domestic  dreams  of 

Heaven ; 

Go  hide  beneath  the  rosy-bush,  or  wait  behind  the  door, 
Till  all  the  wash  and  ironing  work,  and  baking  days  are 

o'er. 

I  want  to  know  if  Hatt  can   work,  or  had  she   rather 

drum 

On  black  and  white  piano  keys,  from  morn  till  set  of  sun  • 
13* 


174  POEMS   AND   LETTERS. 

And  listen  what  I  tell  you  now,  mark  well  the  conversation 
Between  her  and  her  d^ar  mamma,  through  all  this 
avocation. 

Now  do  not  tell  her  all  I  say,  nor  half  of  all  I  think ; 
But  let  me  put  around  your  neck  this  little  golden  link 
For  H.  L.  M.,  from  M.  R.  B. — don't  laugh,  you  little 

rogue; 
And  mind  you  make  no  sad  mistake,  or  lose  it  on  the 

road. 

Yes  Hattie,  I  with  joy  consent,  to  this  your  last  demand  ; 
The  C.  D.  V.,  you  asked  of  me,  I'll  send  by  Uncle  Sam ; 
And  as  you  say  you  will  exchange,  don't  keep  me  long 

in  waiting, 
That  all  our  joys  may  be  enhanced,  that  love  may  grow 

from  hating. 


OBITUARY.  175 


OBITUARY. 

Died  in  Kingston,  May  3d,  1864,  HENRIETTA  FRANCES,  daughter  of 
ERASTTJS  and  MARIA  LEACH  ;  aged  13  / 

["Written  by  request.] 

O  Father  of  Mercies  !     O  angels  above  ! 
Who  heareth  the  raven  and  watcheth  the  dove, 
Once  more  to  thy  bosom  of  Infinite  Love, 

We  come  to  Thee  pleading 

That  the  balm  of  Thy  spirit  its  power  may  impart, 
And  heal  up  the  wounds  in  each  poor,  human  heart, 
That  we  bring  unto  Thee,  from  the  Death-angel's  dart, 

All  mangled  and  bleeding ! 

When  the  Spring-time  had  come  with  her  birds   and 

flowers, 

And  the  May  winds  played  through  the  woodland  bowers ; 
When  the  sands  ran  bright  in  that  home  of  ours, 

Through  life's  young  glass ; 
We  were  happy  then — we  are  sad  to-day ; 
We  have  seen  our  hopes  like  the  flowers  decay — 
And  the  light  of  our  home  has  been  hidden  away, 

Low  under  the  grass  ! 

Ah !  little  we  thought  that  her  earth-life  was  o'er 

When  her  hat  and  shawl  she  hung  up  by  the  door, 

And  laid  down  her  books, —  she  will  need  them  no  more, 

For  her  school  is  dismissed. 

She  has  finished  her  lessons  ;  she  will  gain  her  reward, 
As  she  walks  through  the  fields  the  immortals  have  trod, 
Where  the  teachers  are  angels  appointed  by  God, 

In  the  mansions  of  bliss  ! 


176  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

Then,  my  dear  mourning  friends,  who  with  sorrow  are 

bowed, 

When  you  think  of  her  now  in  her  long,  white  shroud, 
Remember  a  rainbow  of  promise  spans  every  cloud 

That  hides  our  vision. 

And  our  loved  ones  cross  with  their  angel  guide, 
On  this  beautiful  bridge  o'er  the  misty  tide, 
To  live  again  on  the  further  side, 

In  the  land  Elysian  ! 

And  sometimes  we  think  our  Good  Father  above, 
Has  furnished  them  wings  like  the  messenger  dove, 
And  given  them  powers  through  His  Infinite  love, 

To  visit  again 

Their  old  earth-home,  with  a  healing  balm 
Our  spirit's  throbbing  waves  to  calm ; 
To  soothe  with  holy  hymn  and  psalm, 

Life's  troubled  main. 

Dear  mourning  friends,  O  lean  upon 
The  Christian  faith,  and  look  beyond 
The  Great  Blue  Stream,  where  she  has  gone 

To  watch  and  wait. 

Though  sorrows  come,  both  long  and  deep, 
Though  earthly  watchers  fall  asleep, 
She  will  her  spirit  virgils  keep. 

Oh,  Father,  when  we  too  shall  stand 

With  our  life-book  sealed  in  our  cold,  white  hand ; 

When  beneath  our  feet  life's  silver  sand 

Shall  cease  to  run — 

When  we  cross  the  stream  to  that  peaceful  shore, 
May  we  meet  our  loved  ones  gone  before, 
And  feel  to  say  when  our  journey  is  o'er, 

Thy  will  be  done  ! 


THE   LITTLE   STRAW  HAT.  177 


THE    LITTLE    STRAW    HAT. 

I  found  it  to-day  in  the  old  chest-drawers, 
This  little  straw  hat,  with  its  dints  and  flaws ; 
With  the  simple  braid  on  its  faded  crown, 
And  the  little  tape  strings  that  tied  it  down 
'Neath  the  sweet  little,  dear  little  dimple  chin, 
To  hold  it  fast  from  the  playful  wind. 

This  little  straw  hat — how  deeply  is  stirred 
The  fountain  of  tears  by  that  magical  word ! 
For  it  strikes  a  chord  that  has  long  been  broke, 
And  we  weep  again  o'er  its  tremulous  note, 
As  we  think  of  the  years,  so  long  and  deep, 
Since  the  boatman  charmed  her  away  to  sleep ; 
For  the  golden  ringlets  that  waved  below, 
Were  curled  by  the  angels  long  ago. 

My  eyes  grow  dim — I  can  see  no  more 
This  little  straw  hat  as  I  saw  it  before  ; 
Its  soul-life  now  I  can  only  see, 
And  the  past  in  the  present  again  with  me  ; 
For  a  little  child  from  the  courts  above, 
Encircles  me  with  her  sister-love, 
And  while  her  spirit  waits  below, 
I  shall  live  again  in  the  long  ago. 

I  hear  the  song  her  mother  sings, 
I  see  her  doll  and  baby  things  ; 


178  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

I  see  her  crib  and  little  chair, 
I  hear  her  footstep  on  the  stair ; 
Her  prattling  voice  and  broken  song, 
I  hear  them  ringing  all  day  long ; 
Her  little  life — her  every  act, 
I  see  in  the  soul  of  this  little  hat. 

And  I  sit  again  by  that  low  bedside, 

On  the  bright,  glad  morn  when  its  owner  died ; 

When  we  gave  her  up  to  the  angel's  care, 

Save  a  ringlet  cut  from  her  golden  hair — 

With  her  blue  eyes  hid  'neath  their  silken  band, 

And  the  last  rose  of  summer  in  her  little  hands. 

Shadows  and  tears ;  all,  all  I  see, 

And  the  past  in  the  present  again  with  me. 

That  little  straw  hat  with  its  dints  and  flaws, 
Go  lay  it  again  in  the  old  chest-drawers. 
She  has  given  it  up  for  a  bright  little  crown, 
For  the  sun  will  not  tan  in  the  home  she  has  found. 
But  its  mellow  rays  in  the  spirit  spheres, 
Will  bloom  the  buds  that  have  withered  here. 
I  shall  see  her  again,  I  shall  know  her  there, 
When  the  answer  comes  to  my  secret  prayer ; 
When  the  boatman  comes  from  the  other  side, 
And  takes  me  over  the  misty  tide — 
1  shall  clasp  her  again  to  my  heart  and  hand, 
And  dwell  together  in  the  Beautiful  Land. 


THE   LITTLE   COFFIN.  179 


THE    LITTLE    COFFIN. 

It  is  standing  there  'mid  the  dust  and  gloom, 
In  the  undertaker's  coffin-room ; 
There's  a  silver  plate,  and  a  silver  hinge, 
There's  a  little  pillow,  and  silken  fringe, 
And  a  satin  robe  with  sleeves  of  lace, 
In  this  little  rosewood  burial-case. 

And  every  time  I  pass  it  by, 

A  tear  comes  out  and  dims  my  eye  ; 

For  I  know  somewhere,  'mid  the  joy  and  mirth 

Around  some  happy  fireside  hearth, 

There's  a  little  hand  and  a  pretty  face 

To  be  laid  away  in  this  rosewood  case  ! 

There's  a  little  Nat,  and  a  little  Tim, 
There's  a  little  Frank,  and  a  little  Jim ; 
There's  a  little  Ruth  that  loves  to  play 
With  little  Jane  and  little  May ; 
But  I  cannot  tell  whose  name  they'll  trace 
On  the  tablet  of  this  little  case  ! 

I  only  know  some  mother's  heart 
With  its  little  idol  soon  must  part  ; 
That  bitter  tears  will  fall  and  stain 
This  satin  robe,  like  autumn  rain ; 
And  the  form  she  loves  now  to  embrace, 
Will  sleep  in  this  little  rosewood  case. 


180  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

And  I  know,  (but  where  I  cannot  tell,) 
There's  a  land  where  the  little  angels  dwell ; 
Where  the  cherished  hopes  that  faded  here, 
Will  grow  and  expand  in  a  brighter  spheie  ; 
And  some  little  cherub  there  may  trace 
Its  birth  from  this  little  rosewood  case ! 


NATURE'S  WHISPERINGS.  181 


NATURE'S   WHISPERINGS. 

God  spake  to  me,  when  but  a  child, 

I  wandered  'mid  the  flowers, 
Or  gathered  berries  on  the  wild, 

And  in  the  shady  bowers ; 
Aud  when  I  found  a  bit  of  moss, 

I'd  kiss  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  cry  because  I  did  not  love 

The  blessed  Saviour  more  ! 

He  still  speaks  on  from  day  to  day, 

In  every  passing  breeze 
That  fans  the  flowers  beside  the  way, 

Or  whistles  through  the  trees. 
And  when  the  shade  is  on  the  hill, 

I  climb  its  summit  high, 
And  read  His  love  in  eveiy  star 

That  sparkles  in  the  sky ! 

And  when  I  wander  in  the  wood, 

Or  kneel  upon  the  sod, 
That  still,  small  voice  repeats  to  me, 

"  O  give  your  heart  to  God ! " 
Then  may  I  heed  the  warning  voice, 

Ere  comes  the  troubled  night ; 
Like  Mary,  make  that  better  choice 

My  study  and  delight. 
16 


182  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


OUR    "CRYSTAL   PALACE." 

We've  had  a  splendid  "Crystal  Palace," 
'Twas  one  of  Nature's  own  design — 

Composed  by  jewels  richly  strung, 
Wrought  by  celestial  hands  divine  ! 

Each  little  shrub,  and  twig  and  stalk, 
That  bore  the  marks  of  Winter's  blight, 

Was  crystalined  with  silver  frost, 
And  sparkled  in  the  morning  light. 

The  sun  arose  behind  the  clouds, 
And  more  than  once  peeped  out  to  see, 

Then  rolled  himself  in  icy  shrouds, 
Thinking  to  let  the  picture  be. 

From  morn  to  noon  this  loveiy  view, 
Was  left  before  our  wondering  eyes ; 

Perhaps,  to  bring  to  life  anew, 
The  hope  that  in  our  bosom  dies  ! 


TO   CHARLEY   T.   IRISH.  183 


TO    CHARLEY    T.    IRISH. 

I  have  sat  me  down  that  my  soul  might  think, 

And  commune  in  its  home  above ; 
For  this  great  world  with  its  icy  breast, 

Will  not  accept  its  love ; 
And  but  few  can  understand  aright, 

Suspicion  with  them  is  so  nigh ; 
But  I  wonder  are  you  thinking  as  I  do,  Charley — 

I  wonder  are  you  thinking  as  I  ? 

I  have  often  painted  my  heart  below, 

As  every  heart  should  be ; 
A  spot  where  the  fountain  of  love  should  flow 

In  rivers  so  pure  and  free, 
That  the  angels  would  love  to  bathe  in  its  dews, 

As  they  come  from  their  homes  on  high — 
But  I  wonder  are  you  thinking  as  I  do,  Charley ; 

I  wonder  are  you  thinking  as  I  ? 

How  I  wish  I  could  take  the  great  world  in  my  heart, 

For  I  know  there  is  plenty  of  room, 
And  give  them  boquets  from  my  garden  of  love, 

If  they  would  let  them  bud  and  bloom. 
Though  some  may  condemn,  the  river  must  flow, 

The  fountain  is  getting  so  high — 
But  I  wonder  are  you  thinking  as  I  do,  Charley ; 

I  wonder  are  you  thinking  as  I  ? 


184  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

I  sit  down  and  think,  as  the  night  goes  on, 

How  pretty  this  world  would  be, 
If  man  would  exchange  his  selfish  love 

For  that  of  the  pure  and  free. 
Then  I  open  the  blinds  and  look  to  the  east, 

Far  over  the  fields  of  rye — 
But  I  wonder  are  you  thinking  as  I  do,  Charley ; 

I  wonder  are  you  thinking  as  I  ? 


LINES.  185 


LINES. 

DEDICATED  TO   LITTLE   HELEN'S  MOTHER. 

You  had  a  treasure  fair  and  bright, 

A  blessing  from  above ; 
Whose  prattling  voice  was  your  delight, 

So  full  of  life  and  love ; 
But  gloom  has  spread  her  sable  shroud 

Around  your  darkened  hearth ; 
Your  little  "  household  angel"  now 

Has  passed  away  from  earth ! 

You  loved  too  fondly,  not  too  wise, 

Your  beautiful  and  fair ; 
And  when  you  heard  her  little  feet 

Come  patting  on  the  stair, 
Perhaps  you  did  not  stop  and  think 

She  might  not  always  stay ; 
That  some  good  angel  might  come  in 

And  carry  her  away  ! 

So  when  the  angel  came  along, 

And  saw  her  sparkling  eye, 
He  whispered  in  her  ear  the  song 

"  'Tis  summer  in  the  sky ! 
And  will  you  go  with  me  and  sing 

Where  heavenly  waters  glide  ?  " 
He  touched  his  hai-p,  he  moved  his  wing, 

And  little  Helen  died ! 
16* 


186  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

Oh  !  how  you  stood  beside  the  bed, 

As  hour  by  hour  passed  by ; 
And  when  they  told  you  she  was  dead, 

You  went  away  to  cry ! 
And  as  you  thought  of  all  her  plays, 

And  saw  her  things  around, 
You  could  not  think  to  have  them  lay 

Dear  Helen  in  the  ground. 

But  when  we  lay  those  little  forms 

Among  the  grass  and  flowers, 
And  wander  back  with  tearful  eyes 

To  that  dear  home  of  ours ; 
We  then  should  think  'tis  but  the  form, 

That  in  the  green  earth  lies  ; 
And  'twas  the  gem  that  form  contained 

That  we  so  dearly  prized. 

And  is  the  gem  you  so  much  prized, 

Now  sleeping  'neath  the  sod  ? 
Oh,  no  !  'tis  in  the  spirit-land, 

The  paradise  of  God ! 
There  will  its  little  soul  expand 

In  joys  that  never  fade  ; 
And  with  its  angel-teachers,  roam 

The  bright  Elysian  shade. 

And  oft,  perchance,  when  hours  of  grief 

Shall  round  thy  heart  entwine, 
Her  little  spirit  then  may  come 

And  nestle  close  to  thine ; 
And  point  you  to  that  land  of  light, 

Her  dwelling-place  above, 
Where  all  who  will  may   re-unite, 

In  joy,  and  peace,  and  love. 


LINES. 

Then,  oh !  fond  mother,  do  not  weep, 

But  kiss  the  chastening  rod ; 
Your  little  Helen  is  not  lost, 

You've  given  her  to  God  ! 
Then  may  you  lean  upon  His  arm, 

And  place  your  hopes  above ; 
His  is  the  best  of  sympathy, 

He  speaks  in  tones  of  love. 


188  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


LINES 
TO  LITTLE  ADDA'S  MOTHER. 

"  God  keeps  a  niche  in  Heaven  to  hold  our  idols." 

Dear  friend,  thy  loving  heart  is  sad, 

Thy  cheek  is  bathed  in  tears ; 
Affliction's  heavy  rod  is  lain 

Upon  thy  youthful  years." 
The  dearest  ties  that  bound  thy  heart 

To  earth,  have  oft  been  riven ; 
The  sweetest  flowers  that  decked  thy  path, 

Are  blooming  now  in  Heaven  ! 

I'm  thinking,  now,  how  short  the  time, 

Since  one  so  dearly  loved 
Passed  on,  and  left  the  scenes  of  earth 

For  higher  spheres  above. 
And  then  another  one  was  called — 

Again  the  tear-drops  flow  ; 
The  eldest  of  thy  sister-band, 

Was  called  upon  to  go. 

She  feebly  clasped  the  babe  she  loved, 

To  rest  its  weary  form ; 
An  angel  snap'd  a  silver  string — 

Mother  and  babe  were  gone. 
She  wandered  to  the  morning  land, 


LINES.  189 

She  rested  on  the  shore, 
And  clasped  in  her  immortal  arms 

The  loved  ones  gone  before  ! 
And  now  when  joyous  Spring  had  come, 

With  all  her  merry  train 
Of  birds  and  flowers  and  singing  brooks, 

To  cheer  your  heart  again ; 
The  little  bud  that  just  began 

Its  petals  to  unfold, 
And  shed  a  heavenly  ray  of  light 

Around  thy  inmost  soul, 
Has  t'aded  like  the  sunset  sky, 

And  fallen  from  its  stem ; 
God  often  takes  our  fairest  flowers, 

To  draw  our  hearts  to  Him. 

Though  now  you  miss  his  little  step, 

And  all  his  winning  plays, 
And  hear  no  more  his  prattling  voice, 

Through  all  the  summer  days ; 
Yet  when  God's  holy  stars  at  night, 

Smile  from  their  radiant  sphere, 
Methinks  your  little  Adda  comes 

To  hover  round  you  here. 

His  little  soul,  so  tired  of  earth, 

He  could  no  longer  stay ; 
Loved  voices  from  the  spirit-land 

Were  calling  him  away ; 
Then,  leaning  on  an  angel's  breast, 

He  closed  his  sparkling  eyes, 
Crossed  o'er  the  stream,  and  went  to  dwell 

With  seraphs  in  the  skies. 

Oh  could  you  see  the  spirit-band 
Of  loved  ones  gone  before, 


190  POEMS    AND    LETTERS. 

Extending  out  their  waiting  hands, 

To  welcome  him  on  shore, 
You  would  not,  COULD  not  wish  him  back — 

Your  tears  would  cease  to  flow, 
As  through  the  meadows,  soft  and  green, 

Clasped  hand  in  hand  they  go. 


OBITUARY.  191 


OBITUARY. 

Died  in  Kingston,  Sept.  22d,  1859,  WILLARD,  child  of  NAHUM  and 
ALMIKA  B.  SIMMONS;  aged  11  weeks. 

Again  the  leaves  begin  to  fall 

Around  thy  cottage  door ; 
Again  is  heard  the  angels'  call 

From  off  the  other  shore ; 
Again  is  heard  the  golden  harp's 

Glad  music  in  the  skies— 
'Tis  little  Willie  now  they  want, 

Go  close  his  sparkling  e3res  ! 

"  So  little  time  had  passed  away 

Since  down  to  earth  he  flew," 
That  all  the  pathway  back  again 

Right  easily  he  knew ; 
And  so  he  clasped  his  little  hands 

One  still  and  starry  even, 
And  spread  once  more  his  angel  wings, 

Flew  quickly  back  to  heaven  ! 

There,  lay  the  little  form  away 

In  Nature's  leafy  bowers  ; 
And  mother-earth  will  take  it  back 

To  mingle  with  the  flowers. 
But  God  has  took  the  little  germ 

To  join  the  tiny  band 
That  decks  the  crystal  battlements 

In  yonder  spirit-land. 


192  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

I  know  you  miss  his  bird-like  voice — 

You  miss  him  in  your  sleep, 
And  feel  no  more  his  twining  arms 

And  soft  breath  on  your  cheek ; 
But  oft,  methinks,  he'll  come  again 

His  rose-wreath'd  harp  to  play, 
In  strains  of  tender  melodies 

To  chase  thy  grief  away. 

Then  weep  no  more, — God  has  prepared 

A  home  more  fair  and  true  ; 
The  loved  ones  "  gone  before  "  are  there, 

And  little  Willard,  too. 
And  when  the  boatman  comes  to  take 

Us  o'er  the  misty  tide, 
We'll  find  them  waiting  at  the  gate, 

Just  on  the  other  side. 


OBITUARY.  193 


OBITUARY. 

In  Kingston,  Dec.  23d,  1862,  Mrs.  ABIGAIL,  wife  of  ELISHA  McLAUTH- 
I.KN  ;  aged  64  years,  1  month,  15  days. 

Pass  on,  dear  mother,  through  the  gathering  haze 
That  conceals  thy  form  from  our  earthly  gaze — 
Beyond  the  mist  is  Heaven's  pure  air, 
And  many  a  loved  one  waits  us  there ; 
For  half  our  band  have  gone  before, 
And  half  still  wait  on  the  earthly  shore. 

But  oh,  thou  art  missed  iu  our  loved  home  sphere, 

And  our  father  moans  for  thy  presence  here  ; 

For  keen  is  the  arrow  that  rends  in  twain 

The  sweetest  links  in  affection's  chain ; 

And  our  souls  grow  faint,  and  our  tears  will  flow, 

When  we  think  of  thy  form  iu  the  grave  so  low. 

For  not  again,  as  in  days  gone  by, 

Shall  we  meet  the  glance  of  thy  gentle  eye ; 

And  not  again  shall  thy  loving  voice 

Our  lonely  home  on  earth  rejoice  ; 

Yet  we  feel — we  know,  in  thy  home  above, 

We  are  not  forgot  by  a  mother's  love. 

And,  mother,  oft  may  thy  spirit  eyes 
Look  softly  down  from  the  upper  skies ; 
17 


194  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

And  the  holy  smiles  which  the  angels  wear, 
Light  up  our  earthly  path  of  care ; 
And  when  our  hearts  are  bowed  with  grief, 
Let  thy  loved  presence  bring  relief. 

We  know  that  when  a  few  short  years 

Have  passed  away,  with  their  smiles  and  tears, 

We,  too,  shall  wait  on  the  silent  shore 

To  be  rowed  by  him  of  the  muffled  oar ; 

And  oh,  may  we  all  by  a  Father's  love 

Be  re-united  there  above. 


OBITUARY.  195 


OBITUARY. 

In  Kingston,   May  13th,  1864,  OLIVE  M.,  wife  of  Capt.  CEPHAS 

WASBBCRN,  and  daughter  of  ELISHA  MCLACTHLBN  ; 

aged  33  years,  1  month,  6  days. 

[Written  by  request.] 

O  Thou  Great  and  Holy  Being ! 
Thou  who  art  the  far  All-Seeing  ! 
Is  it  through  thy  wise  decreeing,  we  should 

know  Thee  by  affliction  ! 
Is  it  that  ye  so  much  love  us 
That  ye  take  this  way  to  prove  us — 
That  ye  smite  us  with  conviction  ? 

First  ye  sent  for  childhood  flowers, 
Then  for  those  of  riper  hours ; 
Then  ye  called  a  doting  mother,  filling  all 

our  hearts  with  pain ; 
Ere  our  soul  had  ceased  its  sighing, 
Ere  our  eyes  had  time  for  drying, 
Comes  the  boatman  back  again  ! 

Now  a  loving  wife  and  mother — 

Like  a  thornless  rose  in  summer ; 

Like  a  stream  without  a  murmur,  passing 

through  this  world  of  strife — 
Who  by  ceaseless  visitations, 
Learned  to  bow  in  resignation 
To  the  discipline  of  life. 


196  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

Joyous  in  the  hours  of  gladness, 

Comforting  in  hours  of  sadness, 

When  the  heart  grew  wild  with  madness, 

seemed  to  be  her  mission  here ; 
Making  every  cross  seem  lighter, 
Making  every  cloud  seem  brighter, 
By  the  radiance  of  her  sphere. 

But  she,  too,  has  crossed  the  river — 
Took  her  baby-treasure  with  her, 
Back  unto  its  God,  the  Giver,  in  the  land  of 

the  Supernal ! 

Gone  in  all  her  youth  and  beauty, 
Gone  from  usefulness  and  duty, 
Through  the  Golden  Gate  Eternal ! 

How  can  mortals  cease  from  weeping. 
When  they  see  their  loved  ones  sleeping, 
Though  we  feel  they  may  be  reaping  joys 

celestial  as  they  wander 
Where  the  fields  of  bright  Elysian 
Opens  many  a  heavenly  vision, 
In  the  home  of  the  Up- Yonder ! 

Husband  of  the  dear  departed, 
Bowed  with  sorrow,  broken-hearted, 
Pause  and  think — she  only  started  but  a  lit- 
tle time  before ; 
One  by  one  are  crossing  over 
To  their  home  beyond  the  river — 
Wait  and  watch,  but  weep  no  more. 

Aged  father,  lone  and  weary, 
Though  the  earth  seem  dark  and  dreary, 
Loving  angels  hoArer  near  thee,  breathing  out 
'  their  souls1  communion ; 


OBITUART.  197 

And  from  out  thy  cloud  of  sorrow, 
Soon  shall  dawn  a  bright  to-morrow — 
Soon  shaD  come  the  glad  re-union. 

Brothers,  sisters,  ye  have  ever 
Lived  in  harmony  together ; 
Do  not  think  that  death  can  sever  all  those 

ties  of  Love  Fraternal — 
Mortally,  we  fade  and  perish ; 
Spiritually,  we  love  and  cherish 
In  a  land  of  Light  and  Beauty,  'round  the 
throne  of  Life  Eternal ! 
17* 


198  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


TO    AZEL. 

The  morn  will  chase  the  darkness  from 

The  rocky  old  sea-side ; 
And  you  will  shove  your  boat  from  shore, 

And  take  the  morning  tide ; 
And  as  you  plough  the  ocean  waves, 

Oh,  may  they  gently  play 
Around  thy  little  fishing-smack, 

In  Massachusetts  Bay. 

And  as  the  twilight  gathers  round 

And  settles  on  the  sea, 
Remember  many  a  heart  on  shore 

Sends  out  a  prayer  for  thee  ; 
That  faithful  hands  may  not  forget 

To  trim  the  beacon-light, 
And  God  thy  little  boat  protect, 

And  grant  a  starry  night. 

Then  when  the  Storm-King  looks  from  out 

His  windows  in  the  clouds, 
And  fiery  lightnings  tinge  with  gold 

His  dark  and  sable  shrouds ; 
Oh,  may  that  power  that  calms  the  sea 

When  storms  begin  to  burn, 
Protect  thy  little  fishing-smack, 

And  grant  a  safe  return. 


TO  AZEL.  199 

And  when  the  moss  and  sea-weed  grows 

Around  the  old  boat's  side, 
And  thou  hast  launched  thy  spirit-bark 

Upon  life's  evening  tide ; 
An  angel  Pilot  from  the  Port 

Of  Heaven  shall  come  down 
To  guide  you  up  the  narrow  strait, 

When  thou  art  Homeward  Bound. 


200  FOEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


REPLY  TO  COUSIN  BENJA. 

BY  AZEL. 

The  morn  has  come  and  chased  away 

The  darkness  from  the  shore, 
And  I  have  shoved  my  boat  to-day 

Upon  the  tide  once  more  ; 
While  to  the  breeze  her  sails  I've  spread, 

That  bear  me  on  my  way, 
And  now  the  waves  I  plough  ahead 

In  Massachusetts  Bay. 

And  as  the  twilight  fades  away 

To  darkness  in  the  West, 
I  think  of  friends,  and  what  they  say 

As  they  lie  down  to  rest — 
While  faithful  hands  have  trimmed  for  me 

Many  a  beacon-light ; 
And  God  who  made  the  rolling  sea, 

Hath  made  a  starry  night. 

For  as  I  gaze  far,  far  above, 

And  turn  my  wandering  eye, 
They,  faithful  emblems  there  of  love, 

Are  shining  in  the  sky. 
Old  Storm-King,  too,  full  well  I  know 

Is  drowned  at  last  in  sleep, 
For  gentle  zephyrs  only  blow 

Across  the  mighty  deep. 


REPLY  TO  COUSIN  BENJA.  201 

And  may  the  power  that  checks  his  wrath 

When  bounding  o'er  the  main, 
But  calm  his  brow,  as  now  it  hath, 

And  blow  me  back  again. 
And  when  my  old  boat  sinks  away. 

And  lays  her  frame  to  rest, 
May  I,  like  her,  as  truly  say 

That  I  have  done  my  best. 

For  like  my  smack,  my  spirit  bark 

Is  launched  upon  life's  sea, 
And  o'er  its  billows  wild  and  dark, 

Is  bounding  off  with  me. 
And  well  it  is  when  contra  tides 

And  baffling  winds  are  found, 
An  angel  Pilot  often  guides, 

When  we  are  homeward  bound. 


202  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


MY   COUSIN   AND    I. 

I  wish  you  could  see  it — how  splendid ! 

Magnificent  in  the  extreme  ! 
My  cousin's  new  home  in  the  city, 

At  the  corner  of  Essex  and  Green. 
He  has  drawing-rooms,  parlors  and  chambers, 

Ornaments  counted  by  scores ; 
Carpets  of  three-ply  and  velvet 

Cover  the  stairs  and  floors. 

Sofas  of  rosewood  in  damask, 

Chairs  of  walnut  in  silk, 
Tables  and  mantles  in  marble, 

Paintings  of  oil  in  gilt ; 
Mirrors  from  floor  and  ceiling, 

And  heavy  wrought  curtains  are  seen 
In  my  cousin's  new  home  in  the  city, 

At  the  corner  of  Essex  and  Green  ! 

Hot  water-pipes  in  the  chambers, 

Fixtures  for  gas  in  the  walls ; 
Bells  on  the  doors  for  strangers, 

Servants  to  answer  their  calls ; 
Baskets  and  goblets  of  silver, 

Fruit-cakes,  jellies  and  cream, 
Are  served  at  the  three  o'clock  dinners, 

At  the  corner  of  Essex  and  Green. 


MY  COUSIN  AND  I.  203 

Would  you  like  to  step  up  on  the  marbles 

And  look  at  the  show  through  the  door  ? 
But  you  must  not  expect  to  go  further, 

For  they  never  indulge  with  the  poor  ! 
So  I  hope  you  will  not  feel  slighted, 

Or  think  that  my  cousin  is  mean, 
For  none  but  the  rich  are  invited 

At  the  corner  of  Essex  and  Green ! 

Wife  in  the  nursery  reclining, 

Ever  complaining  of  ills  ; 
Fashion,  pride  and  consumption, 

Bottles  of  powders  and  pills. 
Soon  one  thing  more  will  be  wanting 

To  match  this  magnificent  scene — 
'  Tis  a  silver  trimmed  casket  of  rosewood, 

At  the  corner  of  Essex  and  Green. 


I  have  a  home  in  the  country, 

Out  in  the  beautiful  town, 
Cosily  under  the  maples, 

One  story  high  from  the  ground  ; 
Windows  shaded  with  rose-vines 

That  Nature  has  braided  for  me ; 
And  here,  with  God  and  the  angels, 

I  am  living  both  happy  and  free. 

I  fish  in  the  brooks  by  the  meadows, 

And  gather  the  flowers  in  my  path ; 
I  roll  on  the  grass  in  the  shadows, 

And  open  my  mouth  when  I  laugh ; 
For  fashion  has  never  invaded, 

And  pride  has  never  been  found 
In  our  little  cot,  closely  shaded, 

Out  in  the  beautiful  town. 


204  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

Carpets  of  straw  and  of  woollen, 

Ottomans,  chairs  and  settees, 
Covered  with  chintz  at  a  sixpence. 

Made  for  our  comfort  and  ease ; 
Hearts  full  of  love,  and  a  greeting 

Ever  for  friends  will  be  found 
At  our  little  cot,  cosily  shaded, 

Out  in  the  beautiful  town. 

There  I  hope  to  meet  with  you  ofter.— • 

As  I'm  not  inviting  the  few — 
For  we  all  have  God  for  our  Father. 

And  I  am  a  brother  to  you. 
Some  have  moved  out  from  the  cottage 

And  gone  o'er  the  river  to  dwell ; 
But  when  I  get  tired  and  weary, 

Why,  I  shall  go  over  as  well  I 

So  I  try  to  be  cheerful  and  happy, 

Honest,  loving  and  free- 
Remembering,  as  I  do  to  others 

So  will  my  Father  to  me  ; 
And  thus  I'll  be  bridging  the  river, 

By  works  that  are  lasting  and  sound, 
In  a  brown  little  cot  in  the  country, 

One  story  high  from  the  ground. 


FOR  COUSIN  BENJA.  205 


FOR    COUSIN   BENJA. 

BY   SISTER  MART. 

Who  are  you  ?  I  pray,  Cousin  Benja, 

And  is  your  heart  really  light  ? 
Does  it  chase  all  your  clouds  from  your  pathway, 

That  earth's  beauties  would  veil  from  your  sight  ? 
When  to  that  dear  cot  'neath  the  maples, 

Life's  joys  or  its  storms  rudely  come, 
Or  selfishness,  may  be,  awakens 

Discord  in  the  circle  at  home  ? 

Can  you  rule  your  own  heart  to  forbearance 

With  unkindness, — ingratitude,  too  ? 
With  patience  and  cheerfulness  alway 

Life's  arduous  duties  to  do  ? 
Doth  the  unrest  of  childhood  ne'er  vex  you  ? 

Nor  ever  youth's  waywardness  grieve  ? 
Doth  toil  ne'er  fatigue  ;  care  perplex  you, 

Causing  slumber  your  pillow  to  leave  ? 

Can  you  look  on  earth's  strife  with  composure, 

And  patient  the  Father's  time  wait  ? 
Never  fearing  that  through  your  own  blindness 

Some  duty  remains  at  your  gate  ? 
Hast  attained  to  all  this,  Cousin  Benja  ? 

Then  happy  indeed  you  must  be — 
I  know  your  kind  heart  will  refuse  not 

To  tell  the  blest  secret  to  me. 


206  POEMS   AND   LETTERS. 

My  home,  too,  is  quiet  and  rural — 

I  breathe  mountain  air  sweet  and  clear ; 
I  sit  in  the  shade  of  the  maples 

That  shelter  our  old  cottage  here. 
'Tis  old,  and  low-roofed,  and  storm-beaten, 

But  shelter  and  warmth  it  affords ; 
I  love  it,  and  love  its  surroundings — 

I  crave  not  the  dwellings  of  lords. 

'  Tis  nestled  so  warm  on  a  hillside, 

Where  green  groves  and  cool  springs  are  near, 
And  the  music  of  sweet  running  water, 

'  Neath  the  roof  of  the  cottage  we  hear. 
Choice  roses  and  bright  blooming  flowers, 

With  a  woodbine  climb  over  its  eaves, 
Birds  sing  and  make  nests  in  the  bowers, 

Which  the  maple  and  cherry  boughs  weave. 

Rich  sweets  in  the  gardens  abounding, 

Choice  fruits  in  the  gardens  are  near, 
Swt  et  flowers  the  old  cottage  surrounding, 

And  sweetest  bird  music  we  hear. 
This  picture  you  say  now  is  pleasing — 

I  love  it  and  think  it  no  sin ; 
But  'tis  only  the  outside  I've  painted, 

It:s  not  quite  so  pleasant  within. 

We've  enough  for  our  comfort — not  pleasure, 

For  many  things  more  we  desire  ; 
But  it  is  not  to  please  pride  or  fashion, 

But  to  gratify  taste  we  aspire. 
The  thoughts  of  the  wise  and  the  noble, 

The  beauties  of  genius  and  art, 
I  love  them,  and  sure  were  we  able, 

They  would  share  of  our  home-life  a  part. 


FOR   COUSIN  BENJA.  207 

I  would  like  much  the  time  for  their  study, 

To  profit  and  nourish  the  mind ; 
But  no  servants  come  at  my  bidding — 

Little  time  for  such  pleasure  I  find. 
For  the  wants  of  the  body  I  labor 

From  dawn  till  the  time  for  repose  ; 
To  be  honest  with  God  and  my  neighbor, 

And  a  little  toward  soothing  earth's  woes. 

Such  soul-trying  duties  await  me, 

Of  housekeeper,  daughter,  and  wife ; 
Of  mother, — I  love  the  relation, 

But  'tis  the  great  care  of  my  life. 
There  is  age  near  to  helpless  bending, 

And  youth  that  is  wayward  and  rude — 
So  much  there  is  on  me  depending, 

'Tis  indeed  very  hard  to  be  good. 

I  would  like  to  be  "  cheerful  and  happy," 

Never  causing  a  sigh  or  a  tear ; 
So  loving  that  "  God  and  the  angels  " 

Might  be  to  my  home  ever  near. 
I'd  not  tire  of  the  world  nor  its  duties, 

Had  I  wisdom  and  strength  for  the  whole ; 
But  I  tire  of  myself, — 'mid  its  beauties 

I  want,  oh  !  a  beautifnl  soul. 

I  fear  I'm  not  "  bridging  the  river," 

But  I  dread  not  the  boatman  pale  ; 
I  know  he  will  bear  me  safe  over 

When  body  and  spirit  shall  fail. 
And  I  know  on  that  bright  shore  are  loved  ones, 

Who  with  welcome  my  coining  will  greet, 
If  cheerful  and  patient  I  labor, 

And  wait  till  such  time  as  is  meet. 


208  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 

My  health  and  my  strength  are  declining, 

My  hair  is  fast  turning  gray ; 
I'm  fading  away  like  my  flowers, 

And  soon  shall  lie  withered  as  they. 
But  like  the  sweet  fragrance  of  roses, 

That  yield  us  the  richest  perfume, 
I  would  live  when  this  body  reposes 

In  the  silent  embrace  of  the  tomb. 

Will  you  come  to  my  home,  Cousin  Benja, 

When  Summer  hath  clothed  it  with  green ; 
When  birds  carol  sweet,  and  the  flowers 

Around  it  in  freshness  are  seen  ? 
Yes,  come,  Cousin,  please,  bring  the  dear  ones, 

If  indeed,  as  you  say,  they're  not  proud ; 
There  are  plenty  of  "  grass"  and  of  "  shadows," 

And  you  may  "  laugh  "  softly  or  loud. 

We'll  roam  over  hills  and  through  wildwoods, 

From  the  mountain  grand  views  we  will  take  ; 
You  will  like  the  rude  haunts  of  my  childhood, 

And  will  sail  on  our  beautiful  lakes. 
Bring  along  with  you  plenty  of  sunshine, 

To  shed  o'er  my  care-weary  way ; 
We  will  each  be  the  stronger  and  better, 

And  well  for  the  trouble  'twill  pay. 


OLD   TIMES   AND  NEW.  209 


OLD    TIMES    AND    NEW. 

"  I  do  respect  those  good  old  days, 

Those  good  old  days  of  yore  ; 
When  patriot  .fathers  prayerful  sought 

The  wild  New  England  shore  ; " 
When  by  their  strong  and  valiant  arm 

The  forest  disappeared  ; 
The  cottage  and  the  farm-house  built, 

And  town  and  cities  reared. 

Ah  !  give  me  back  those  good  old  days, 

The  days  when  Grandpa  Dean, 
Dressed  in  his  homespun  coat  and  vest, 

Went  courting  Molly  Beau. 
Though  many  miles  had  he  to  walk, 

He  was  home  before  the  sun ; 
Beaux  did  not  stay  a  week  each  time, 

When  Grandpa  Dean  was  young  ! 

But  those  old  times  have  passed  away — 

Times  so  despised  by  some  ; 
Times,  let  me  tell  you,  much  the  best, 

In  more  respects  than  one. 
And  if  you  think  to  doubt  my  word, 

Then  listen  to  my  song ; 
111  tell  you  why  I  think  they  were — 

'  Twill  not  detain  you  long. 
18* 


210  POEMS   AND   LETTERS. 

In  days  of  old,  (as  I've  been  told,) 

The  men,  (and  women,  too,) 
Knew  how  to  work,  while  boys  and  girls 

All  had  a  stint  to  do. 
This  kept  the  mind  active  and  clear, 

And  caused  the  blood  to  flow 
Throughout  the  system,  as  it  should, 

In  days  of  long  ago. 

O  dear !  I  get  so  vexed  sometimes, 

I  know  it  does  no  good ; 
But  then  why  don't  the  people  live 

As  God  designed  they  Should  ? 
But  fashions  now  must  take  the  lead 

In  this  enlightened  day ; 
So  they  die  of  heart  and  spine  complaints, 

And  thus  they  pass  away ! 

In  days  of  old  the  youngster  then, 

When  growing  into  man, 
Grew  whiskers  in  a  natural  way, 

Long,  beautiful,  and  grand. 
For  Nature  then  could  do  her  work, 

With  health  and  strength  within ; 
And  every  one  could  raise  a  crop 

Around  the  face  and  chin  ! 

Now  they  practice  irrigation — 

For  often  I  have  seen 
Two  streams  of  rich  guano  juice 

Run  trickling  down  the  chin ; 
The  dust  and  dirt  that's  added, 

Forms  a  dressing  rich  and  rare, 
From  which  they  gain  an  extra  crop, 

That  well  repays  the  care  ! 


OLD   TIMES  AND   NEW.  211 

This  takes  away  his  life  and  strength, 

And  so  weak  the  youngster  feels, 
He  hardly  dares  to  undertake 

The  journey  to  his  meals ; 
If  longer  distance  he  must  go, 

He  gets  a  "  team  "of  "  Josh," 
And  rides  around  to  Jane  Maria's, 

A  half  a  mile  across. 

The  girls  no  longer  learn  to  work — 

Oh  no  ;  they  rather  drum 
On  black  and  white  piano  keys, 

From  morn  till  set  of  sun. 
Not  one  in  ten  can  sew  or  mend, 

Nor  iron,  bake  or  wash ; 
Now  Bridget  does  the  kitchen  woi'k, 

While  they  are  knitting  floss  ! 

The  girls  that  lived  in  times  of  old, 

Did  never  need,  I  guess 
A  pound  or  more  of  cotton-laps 

To  make  a  well  formed  chest ; 
They  had  bodies  then  of  flesh  and  blood, 

With  muscles  strong  and  stout ; 
No  need  had  they  of  whale-bone  skirts, 

To  make  themselves  stick  out ! 

What  end  will  be  of  all  these  things, 

No  one  can  now  discern ; 
Altho1  the  present  state  of  things 

Give  people  great  concern. 
Then  wonder  not,  for  well  it  may, 

While  fashion  holds  the  rein — 
Alas  !  the  days  of  Grandpa  Dean, 

Will  ne'er  return  a<rain. 


212  POEMS   AND  LETTERS. 


A    KISS    FOR    A   BLOW. 

What  makes  little  children  quite  happy  and  good  ? 
What  banishes  temper,  both  naughty  and  rude  ? 
It  is  the  sweet  maxim  we  very  well  know, 
Of  giving  each  other  a  kiss  for  a  blow. 

Should  a  quarrel  arise,  whate'er  be  the  cause, 
What  is  better  by  far  than  a  whole  code  of  laws  ? 
It  is  the  sweet  practice,  we  very  well  know, 
Of  always  returning  a  kiss  for  a  blow. 

In  each  stage  of  life,  e'en  from  infancy's  years, 
To  manhood's  last  step  in  the  valley  of  tears, 
There's  naught  that  can  yield  so  much  pleasure  below, 
As  ever  returning  a  kiss  for  a  blow. 

Though  men  should  condemn  us,  and  call  us  but  fools, 
Yet  still  we  must  love  them  and  pray  for  their  souls ; 
Through  the  journey  of  life  let  us  patiently  go, 
Still  ever  returning  a  kiss  for  a  blow. 

Should  any  assail  us  in  deed  or  in  word, 
Oh  !  then  let  us  act  like  our  meek,  patient  Lord ; 
Who  when  in  the  depths  of  his  bitterest  woes, 
Returned  in  his  anguish  a  kiss  for  a  blow. 

Then  Julia,  and  Hannah,  and  Allen,  and  John, 
I  pray  don't  forget,  but  remember  my  song ; 
If  a  playmate  gets  angry  and  strikes  you,  then  go 
And  ever  return  a  kiss  for  a  blow. 


QUERY  TO   S.    S.  213 


QUERY  TO  S.  S.— AN  OLD  BACHELOR. 

And  wilt  thou  always  live  alone  ? 
Wilt  thou  no  joys  in  woman  own  ? 
Has  Hymen's  bonds  no  bliss  for  thee  ? 
Canst  thou  no  charms  in  woman  see  ? 

Would  not  a  wife  thy  joys  increase  ? 
Add  to  thy  comfort  and  thy  peace  ? 
Would  not  thy  home  more  bright  appear 
If  a  kind,  virtuous  wife  was  near  ? 

Dost  thou  not  envy  others'  fare, 

Who  have  good  wives  their  toils  to  share  ? 

And  wilt  thou  not  to  this  agree, 

That  Hymen's  chains  are  forged  for  thee  ? 

How  long  shall  fortune  on  thee  smile, 
And  sunny  hopes  thy  hours  beguile, 
Before  you  find  your  crown  for  life — 
A  virtuous  and  obliging  wife  ? 

Call  not  these  queries  "  too  unchaste," 
Although  I've  written  in  great  haste  ; 
For  true  it  is,  I  am  no  other 
Than  B.  R.  M.,  your  friend  and  neighbor. 


214  POEMS   AXD   LETTERS. 


PROFANE    SWEARING. 

"  Thou  shalt  not  take  the  name  of  the  Lord  thy  God  in  vain,  for  the  Lord 
will  not  hold  him  guiltless  who  taketh  his  name  in  vain." 

What  motive  can  there  be  for  profane  swearing? 
There  can  be  none,  and  yet  it  is  done  beneath  the  very 
heavens  which  tell  the  glory  of  that  good  God,  who 
giveth  us  all  the  blessings  that  we  enjoy,  and  by  that 
tongue  to  which  he  has  given  the  wonderful  power  of 
speech,  that  it  might  proclaim  his  honor  and  his  praise  ! 
How  painful  it  is  to  the  mind  and  moral  taste  of  every 
friend  of  virtue,  to  witness  the  amount  of  profane  swear- 
ing that  is  daily  showering  around  us.  One  can  hardly 
walk  the  streets  without  having  profane  oaths  constantly 
falling  on  their  ear ;  and  is  this  practice  chiefly  con- 
fined to  the  young  ?  No ;  it  is  heard  alike  from  the 
youth  to  the  middle-aged  and  hoary-headed  sires ;  those 
that  are  the  fathers  and  grandfathers  of  these  little  chil- 
dren. How  wicked !  I  recollect  once,  while  passing 
through  one  of  the  streets  of  our  own  little  village, 
hearing  the  following:  "You  little  curse,  if  you  go 
near  my  hay-stack  again,  I  hope  you'll  break  your  neck  !" 
A  shuddering  came  over  me,  and  my  blood  almost 
chilled  in  my  veins,  as  I  looked  around  and  found  that 
these  words  were  addressed  from  an  aged  grandfather 
to  his  little  grandson  Freddy,  because  he  in  his  innocence 
had  taken  the  liberty  to  act  out  his  nature  by  frolicking 
in  the  old  man's  hay.  Oh,  how  I  pitied  that  poor  old 


PROFANE   SWEARING.  215 

man !  And  was  he  not  an  object  of  pity  ?  An  old  man 
whom  God  has  protected  and  blessed  through  seventy 
long  years,  now,  instead  of  teaching  little  Freddy  to 
pray  "  lead  us  not  into  temptation,"  and  entreating  him 
to  avoid  profanity,  showering  curses  upon  his  head  ! 

And  such  instances  are  not  uncommon.  How  often 
we  hear  fathers  and  elder  brothers  giving  children  the 
sanction  of  a  curse.  Is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  then,  that 
we  are  so  often  pained  to  hear  the  youth  take  oath  after 
oath  upon  their  little  tongues  ?  It  is  not  the  nature  of 
children  to  use  such  language.  Take  for  instance  a 
family  of  children  whose  parents  have  taught  them  the 
evil  consequences  of  profanity,  and  they  will  shudder  at 
the  sound  of  it !  I  once  knew  a  man  that  was  addicted 
to  profane  language,  and  went  into  the  house  of  one  of 
his  neighbors  where  it  was  not  used,  and  after  holding 
conversation  with  its  inmates,  in  which  he  made  use  of 
many  wicked  words,  he  turned  to  a  little  girl,  "  the  angel 
of  the  household,"  and  invited  her  to  come  and  sit  with 
him,  at  the  same  time  offering  her  a  bit  of  money,  but 
the  little  girl  sternly  refused.  After  the  man  had  gone 
away,  the  mother  called  the  little  girl  to  her  side,  and 
said,  "  Mary,  my  dear,  why  did  you  not  go  and  sit  with 
the  gentleman  when  he  asked  you  ?  "  Little  Mary  looked 
up  in  her  mother's  face  with  surprise,  and  said,  "  Mother, 
he  spoke  such  wicked  words,  I  didn't  dare  to  !  " 

Here  we  see  the  result  of  good  example  and  religious 
instruction.  Had  little  Mary  been  in  the  habit  of  hear- 
ing wicked  language  from  her  father's  lips  day  by  day , 
she  would  not  have  refused  to  sit  by  the  side  of  any  man 
on  account  of  his  profanity. 

Then,  let  me  say  one  word  more  to  all  fathers  and 
mothers  whose  paths  are  thronged  with  little  children ; 
be  careful  how  you  teach  them  to  profane  God's  holy 
name,  for  who  can  fathom  the  wickedness  and  misery 
that  may  arise  from  such  a  practice  ?  And  ye  know  not 


216  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

how  many  little  embryo  angels  in  disguise  wait  to 
expand  their  beautiful  wings  and  make  earth  a  paradise, 
if  ye  teach  them  to  love  and  obey  the  precepts  and 
examples  of  the  gentle  .Jesus.  Let  me  then  entreat  each 
and  every  one  of  you  to  avoid  profanity ;  you  will  then 
learn  to  be  a  true  gentleman,  a  wise  man,  and  I  trust, 
become  a  better  Christian. 


SUMMER  BIRDS.  217 


SUMMER   BIRDS. 

Sweet  little  birds  of  Summer  hours, 

Forever  on  the  wing ; 
I  love  them  as  I  love  the  flowers, 

When  blooming  in  the  Spring. 

They  come  like  pleasant  memories, 

In  Summer's  joyous  time, 
And  sing  their  happy  melodies, 

As  I  would  sing  a  rhyme. 

Amid  the  morning's  smiling  dew, 

Amid  the  mists  of  even, 
They  sing  away  as  if  they  drew 

Their  music  down  from  Heaven. 

How  sweetly  sounds  each  mellow  note, 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
When  sitting  in  the  lovely  grove, 

Singing  their  time  away. 

Sweet  little  birds  of  Summer's  hours, 

Among  the  tombs  they  glide, 
Where  cold,  pale  forms  for  which  we  grieve, 

Lay  sleeping  side  by  side. 
19 


218  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  starlight  hours, 

When  I  am  with  the  dead, 
Oh !  may  they  flutter  with  the  flowers 

That  blossom  o'er  my  head. 
And  pour  their  songs  of  gladness  forth, 

In  one  melodious  strain, 
O'er  lips  whose  broken  melody 

Shall  never  sing  again. 


MY   MOTHER.  219 


MY    MOTHER. 

There  is  music  in  almost  everything.  In  the  zephyrs 
that  whisper  a  welcome  to  the  youthful  year ;  in  Sum- 
mer's cooling  breeze,  as  it  softly  sings  through  the  leafy 
grove ;  in  the  farewell  moaning  of  Autumn ;  in  the 
warble  of  the  carolling  woodland  songsters  ;  in  the  inno- 
cent prattle  of  merry  childhood;  the  merry  songs  of 
youth,  and  the  bioken  voice  of  old  age.  Yes,  in  these 
there  is  music ;  but  it  has  not  that  charm  which  comes 
from  the  sound  of  these  words — "  My  Mother." 

How  many  kind  thoughts  and  recollections  are  mingled 
in  the  name  of  Mother !  How  many  kind  wishes  and 
feelings  of  pleasure  are  called  up  by  the  simple  words, 
"  My  Mother." 

Why  is  it  that  that  name  causes  so  many  smiles  and  so 
many  tears  ?  Is  it  because  she  cares  for  our  every  want  ; 
spends  days  and  months  in  seeking  that  which  will  con- 
tribute to  our  happiness  ?  Yes ;  it  is  this  which  binds  us 
to  the  name  of  mother.  We  know  not  the  value  of  that 
mother  until  she  is  separated  from  us  forever.  It  is  then 
we  shall  feel  the  loss  of  one  whose  place  can  never  be 
supplied.  Then,  my  young  friends,  honor  and  cherish 
her.  Speak  not  an  unkind  word;  but  ever  be  ready, 
with  a  smiling  face  and  willing  hands,  to  help  her 
through  the  many  little  trials  of  life. 


220  POEMS    AND    LETTERS. 


LINES 
WRITTEN  FOR  MRS.    ELIZABETH   WASHBURN. 

Long  days  and  years  have  passed,  and  yet 
They  seem  but  short,  since  last  we  met 
With  aching  hearts  and  tearful  eyes ; 
For  father  soon  we  knew  must  die. 

His  dying  bed  we  gathered  near, 
With  mournful  thoughts  and  anxious  fear ; 
To  catch  once  more  his  faltering  breath, 
Ere  that  loved  form  was  cold  in  death. 

But  soon  the  angel  Death  came  down 
And  drew  the  shades  of  death  around ; 
He  breathed  no  more  —  his  soul  had  passed, 
And  that  warm  heart  was  cold  at  last. 

Long  years  have  passed  with  grief  and  pain — 
The  angel  Death  has  called  again ; 
His  silver  wings  move  to  and  fro — 
'Tis  mother's  turn,  and  she  must  go. 

As  feeble  health  prevented  me 
Dear  mother's  wasting  form  to  see, 
Ye  needs  must  think  I  loudly  call 
A  sympathizing  word  from  all. 


LINES.  221 


Don't  wonder  then  that  I  should  weep, 
And  grieve  to  hear  dear  mother  speak ; 
To  give  once  more  the  parting  kiss, 
Ere  she  should  leave  for  worlds  of  bliss. 

But  they  have  gone ;  their  souls  have  fled- 
Father  and  mother  both  are  dead ; 
No  more  we'll  hear  their  voices  sweet, 
For  we  on  earth  no  more  shall  meet. 

Their  bodies  in  the  green  earth  lie  ; 
Their  spirits  dwell  with  God  on  high — 
Oh !  may  I  be  prepared  to  stand, 
And  meet  them  both  at  God's  right  hand. 
19* 


222  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


TO    A   FRIEND. 

I  am  tired,  I  am  weary, 

Weary  of  this  earthly  life ; 
All  around  seems  dark  and  dreary, 

Coldness  mingling  with  strife. 

Friends,  who  now  should  prove  consoling, 
Leave  me  in  my  sinking  bark ; 

Uncongenial  waves  are  rolling 

O'er  my  storm-tossed,  breaking  heart. 

Cold  words  fall  upon  my  spirit, 
Freezing  up  the  fount  within ; 

Frowning  looks  my  path  inherit, 
Blighting  all  my  hopes  by  sin. 

I  have  toiled  in  expectations, 

Trusted  like  the  lonely  dove ; 
Given  out  my  soul's  affections 

For  the  dross  of  earthly  love. 

Gone  are  hopes  I  fondly  cherished, 
Ere  they  scarce  begun  to  live  ; 

Save  me,  Father !  else  I  perish — 
Have  I  erred  ?  oh,  then  forgive ! 

Give  me  strength  to  travel  onward, 

For  I  weary  on  the  way ; 
Lead  me  in  my  pathway  homeward, 

Till  I  reach  a  brighter  day. 


THE  SPIRIT'S  REPLY  223 


THE    SPIRIT'S    REPLY. 

Sister,  does  thy  spirit  sadden 
In  thy  lonely  march  below  ? 

Canst  thou  see  no  ray  to  gladden 
Where  the  streams  of  wisdom  flow  ? 

Things  that  cause  these  sad  repinings. 
Help  the  spirit  to  grow  strong ; 

All  thy  clouds  have  silver  linings, 
In  the  spirit  world  beyond. 

Toil  on,  sister,  toil  and  labor, 
Doing  all  the  good  you  can 

For  thy  God  and  for  thy  neighbor — 
Life  on  earth  is  but  a  span. 

Falter  not  where  duty  leads  thee, 
As  thou  labor,  learn  to  wait ; 

Unseen  arms  shall  sure  uphold  thee, 
Though  thy  path  seem  desolate.    • 

We  are  trying  to  sustain  thee,    • 
Though  thy  trials  are  severe ; 

Faith  and  goodness  shall  obtain  thee 
Rest  in  thy  celestial  sphere. 

Loving  friends,  in  robes  immortal, 
Freed  from  earthly  scars  and  stain, 

Wait  thee  at  the  spirit  poilals, 
Never  more  to  part  again. 


224  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  LENA. 

When  the  forest  leaves  were  falling, 

And  the  flowers  began  to  fade ; 
When  the  birds  their  mates  were  calling, 

Through  the  woodland  and  the  glade  ; 
When  the  harvesters  were  binding  up 

Their  sheaves  of  golden  worth, 
The  angels,  too,  were  gathering 

The  beautiful  of  earth. 

They  came,  that  Autumn  morning, 

In  the  early  twilight  shade, 
To  hover  round  the  snowy  couch 

Where  little  Lena  laid. 
They  looked  into  her  little  heart, 

And  found  a  sparkling  gem ; 
Then  snapped  the  golden  link  apart, 

And  took  it  home  with  them. 

Oh  !  how  you  miss  her  little  form, 

And  sparkling  eyes  so  fair ; 
Her  bird-like  voice  and  merry  laugh, 

Her  step  upon  the  stair ; 
Her  twining  arms  around  your  neck, 

Of  innocence  and  bliss ; 
The  little  bed  where  once  she  slept, 

Her  prayer  and  good-night  kiss. 


ON  THE   DEATH   OF  LITTLE   LENA.  225 

All,  all  have  gone,  those  jewels  bright, 

That  you  so  dearly  loved ; 
They  were  the  gifts  that  Heaven  lent 

To  win  your  thoughts  above. 
But  now  around  God's  mercy-seat, 

Thy  little  one  shall  be 
A  messenger  of  love  and  peace 

Between  thy  God  and  thee. 

And  often  when  the  twilight  hours 

Shall  gather  in  the  sky, 
And  sadness  weigh  thy  weary  heart, 

And  sorrow's  clouds  hang  nigh ; 
Thy  little  Lena  may  come  back, 

With  gladness  on  her  wings, 
To  lead  you  up  the  Heavenly  track 

To  where  the  angels  sing. 

Her  father  will  not  be  forgot, 

In  her  bright  home  above  ; 
And  little  Charley,  too,  will  claim 

A  portion  of  her  love. 
But  gently  from  the  realms  of  light, 

She'll  guard  and  watch  them  o'er, 
Through  many  a  dark  and  troubled  night, 

To  yonder  happier  shore. 

I  would  not  wipe  the  tear-drop  stain 

From  out  those  eyes  of  thine  ; 
For  this  I  know  would  be  in  vain, 

If  such  a  lot  were  mine. 
But  I  would  point  thee  to  that  fount, 

The  great  Eternal  One, 
And  say,  although  He  chasteneth, 

"  Father,  Thy  will  be  done  ! " 


226  POEMS  AND  LETTERS. 


MY    LOVED    ONE    IS    DEAD. 

It  is  morn,  but  the  morning  is  lovely  no  more, 

Though  the  sun  shines  as  brightly  as  "  ever  before  ;" 

The  night-bird  's  at  rest,  on  his  favorite  tree, 

"  All  nature  is  cheerful,  all  happy  but  me." 

The  mourn  of  the  dove  is  heard  o'er  my  head, 

But  I'm  sad  when  I  think  that  my  loved  one  is  dead. 

You  may  ask  me  to  walk  in  the  evergreen  bowers, 

You  may  twine  me  a  wreath  from  the  fairest  of  flowers ; 

Ye  bid  me  be  cheerful  and  join  in  the  mirth, 

But  alas  !  all  my  pleasures  have  vanished  from  earth, 

And  my  dreams  of  the  future  like  the  Summer  have  fled, 

And  I'm  sad  when  I  think  that  my  lov'd  one  is  dead ! 

I  will  visit  the  graves  where  my  forefathers  sleep, 

I  will  sing  them  a  song  that  shall  cause  them  to  weep ; 

I  will  knock  at  their  tombstones,  and  ask  if  there's  rest 

In  that  far-away  land,  the  home  of  the  blest ; 

I'll  bedew  their  green  graves  with  the  tears  that  I  shed, 

And  tell  them  I'm  sad,  for  my  loved  one  is  dead  ! 

I  will  dress  me  in  blue,  I  will  banish  my  pride, 
I  will  visit  the  land  where  my  Ellen*  has  died ; 
I  will  seek  for  her  grave  'mid  the  forests  of  flowers, 
I'll  bedew  it  with  tears  in  plentiful  showers ; 
I  will  pillow  my  head  on  the  grave  of  my  love, 
Till  I'm  called  to  meet  in  re-union  above ! 


*  XOTK. —  ELLEN  died  fifteen  years  before  Benja's  death.  He  was  engaged 
to  her  some  time  previous  to  her  death,  and  ever  after  recognized  the  guar- 
dianship of  her  holy  spirit. 


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